


If My Heart Could Beat

by Iriya, JayEz



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 17th century to Modern Day, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Banter, Bickering, Blood Thirst, Case Fic, Drama, Human Sherlock, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Secret Intelligence Service, Slow Build, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vampire John, Vampires are Known, soldier John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-05-03 01:22:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5271254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya, https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayEz/pseuds/JayEz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As long as Sherlock could remember, John had always been by his side, even after he and his brother had been orphaned. But one day John disappeared without a note or breadcrumbs to follow. Sherlock never learnt it was a growing attraction that forced John’s leave.<br/>Their paths crossed again years later at the first meeting of a special task force to solve a string of mysterious vampire deaths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the product of an unconventional RPG based on Iriya’s idea of vampire!John. Unconventional, since JayEz failed at the original concept and Iriya was kind enough to go along. :) 
> 
> This story is written for an adult audience only, and tagged to reflect this. If you're under the age of 18 and have any concerns with the story's content, please refrain from leaving comments that contain displeasure of the work we have written. We are having a great time writing this story and decided to share it. Comments are love! Concrit welcome.  
> It does take time between chapters but we're sure you'll be understanding of us having a real life too.  
> Thank you!

“My name is John Watson and I’m a vampire. This is my story.”

~*~

**Prologue**

In many cultures of the world, people knew tales about mythical creatures, which needed blood to survive, could only live in the dark, had super-human skills and were as dangerous as the wild animals that lived in the forests or open savannah. While parents mostly told those stories to scare children into behaving, they never would have thought that at one point during history, those creatures would be revealed as non-mythical.

They had existed since the beginning of humankind and had kept their identity a secret from the very moment they knew they wouldn’t be accepted. They were aware of people’s fear of them and to prevent extinction, they mingled with them and became as invisible as possible to the human eye. Nothing gave them away. Neither skin colour, nor hair colour, not eyes or speech. They became masters of deception and managed to survive until this very day. You wouldn’t even realise you passed them on the street. You would even be shocked that they made up one quarter of the human population on earth.

Once in a while there were some of them who became fed up with their situation and daring enough to fight against the unspoken rules of staying in hiding. These tensions resulted in nasty wars among them, wars that were perceived by humans as a fight between two countries that didn’t get along. They never guessed it wasn’t a war between humans.

The Vampire Council, as it was called, that presided the smaller structures of authorities all vampires bowed to, managed to keep their people in check for a very long time, regulating how many humans were allowed to be killed for food or taken as mates and thus avoiding detection.

Of course, it couldn’t stay like that forever. At the end of the nineteenth century, there was a revolt among the vampires living in Northern Europe, a revolt that was carried by the idea of unveiling their secret and taking over the human world. Out of a blind rage, many innocent humans were killed in several massacres, even women and children, which gained huge attention from the Vampire Council but also the human leaders of the European nations. They sent investigators to find out the reason for the huge bloodshed, never expecting the revelation that was about to come. The Vampire Council arranged a meeting with all European leaders and took the greatest step in vampire history – they revealed their true nature. No one wanted to believe them at first, but when one creature picked up a president and slammed him into a wall, baring his fangs that could grow at will, any doubts fell silent. All of the leaders were intimidated, many of them frightened and others outraged that the vampires had hidden away for so long. They argued about eradicating them because they felt inferior, but others suggested to let them continue as they had before, intending to fulfil their wishes of acknowledgment and prevent the continued bloodshed.

Many decades had to pass until the vampires were pleased with their existence among humans. It wasn’t ideal for all of them but it was acceptable for many.

One of the best breakthroughs was the invention of bloodbags which vampires could purchase in hospitals. Some of them still relied on hunting animals to indulge their wild nature, but the more civilised vampires, who felt more like an elite, took to the bloodbags. Although only a small percentage of humans knew about the existence of vampires – mostly those who catered for their needs like hospitals and pharmacies – there was a higher awareness for the possible existence of them.

From the middle of the twentieth century, when the awareness for vampires had reached the point of acceptance, many vampires started to take humans as their partner as in wife and husband. The children that resulted from this union were special, having inherited long life, good health and better skills in many daily activities. Those who knew about them admired them and longed to have children with them. Some societies handled them like gold and arranged marriages for a very high price.

Nowadays, there aren’t many mythical creatures left in the world. They walk in obscurity, wary of the fear they are met with, organising underground to develop techniques that allow them to blend in.

It was from one of these groups that John Watson purchased his documents. He paid in cash, handed over the exact amount in a sealed envelope to a vampire considerably older than himself.

Apparently satisfied, the man reached into his coat pocket and gave John everything he needed to join the army one more time. Vampires weren’t allowed to serve; yet professionally forged papers eliminated that obstacle.

John nodded at his business partner and vanished into the night.

~*~

**Chapter 1**

**_England, 1666_ **

When the Great Plague broke out, John Watson was sure his life would be over soon. To still be alive and breathing one year later bordered on a miracle.

As a midwife, his spouse Mary was always at risk of falling ill. Not many people could afford to see a physician and midwives were trained in the art of healing, so she tended to more than just pregnant women. At least their son Hamish was safe – a neighbouring carpenter accepted him as his apprentice when he was old enough, and John doubted any father was prouder than he was of his twelve-year-old son.

The one most at risk had always been John, seeing as he was a practising physician. His service in the Second Civil War taught him many things, first and foremost his passion for medicine. He didn’t have the money to attend university; instead a soldier whose life he had saved got him in touch with Edward Bowker, a progressive doctor in London. Bowker had studied in Italy under Sanctorius, who invented something called a thermometer and a weighing machine.

John learnt how to treat patients, how to operate on them and when the Plague consumed London, Bowker helped Nathaniel Hodges, one of the few physicians actively fighting against the disease.

The dead piled up during weeks of chaos and John felt helpless in the face of the Black Death. He wanted to flee, like the King and his Court had done, yet he and his family had no money to do so. So he stayed, trying to help where he could, the constant fear of contracting the Plague bringing him many sleepless nights.

He survived, as did his wife and child. John couldn’t believe his luck. Many of his friends had died or were mourning their family who had fallen victim to the illness.

Then the riots started and the world descended into chaos once more, only this time it was worse than before and in the end, John’s life was forever changed.

~*~

Henricus Estrode had seen three different centuries bleed into the next. He had dealt with insurgence in the past, chastised vampires who thought themselves better than their peers, who wanted to see the world kneel at their feet.

They never seemed to remember that humans outnumbered their kind ten to one and were – as interhuman wars had proven – capable of great violence. Estrode had heard the kind of horror stories travelling creatures told of Italy, where the Church strung vampires up in broad daylight until, hours or even days later depending on how strong the victim was, the vampire perished. Immortality could have an end after all.

However, the situation had never been this dire. Human London might be recuperating, having survived the Plague, yet vampires went hungry. They blamed Estrode, of course. The leader of the English Council was always at fault for everything. They didn’t care that he had to answer to his superiors as well.

A great number of casualties attributed to the Black Death had indeed fallen prey to vampires. Diseases didn’t affect their kind, which made them conspicuous in times of suffering. Additionally with so many people dying, the Council had to reduce the number of allowed kills, or else there would have been no London left to feed off.

Not that common vampires understood the Council’s reasoning, of course. They roamed the streets and fed and then complained when the Council locked them up for treason. They should have been lucky they still got to keep their fangs.

Estrode was aware that the city-wide feeding ban he had passed would elicit a reaction, he truly was. Yet some things couldn’t be helped. Humans needed to reproduce and fill the city and vampires should not interfere.

The doors to his study opened suddenly, interrupting Estrode’s reflections.

“Fire!” William shouted. “There’s a fire!”

Estrode barely resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. William was young for a vampire, had a flare for the dramatic and was just learning how to navigate the waters of vampire politics.

“Then put it out,” he all but snapped.

William, however, didn’t calm down. “We can’t, sire! Entire streets are burning and it’s spreading, fast! There are reports that one of ours started it, feeding off a baker and somehow… I’m not clear on the details, but the bakery went up in flames and it’s spreading, fast.”

Estrode hissed, would have bared his fangs if he didn’t have the amount of self-control he actually possessed.

“Tell the Captain General to spread the word – no one feeds. No one! Any actions to the contrary will be considered treason!”

“Yes, sir.”

William fled the room so fast a human eye wouldn’t have been able to follow his exit.

~*~

John’s eyes were still burning, his limbs tired as he returned to Mary and Hamish on Monday morning, the sky full of smoke from the greatest fire he had ever seen.

“Can I inspect it?” Hamish asked, jumping up and down and craning his neck as if a few centimetres would make a difference.

“No, you and your mother are heading the other direction,” John insisted, helping his wife carry a basket of food out to the cart that held their most important possessions.

“But father –”

“Hamish.” John’s voice was stern, then, and like the good son he was, Hamish dropped the issue, lending them a hand with slumped shoulders.

“Be careful,” Mary whispered in his ear as he pulled her into a tight embrace.

He couldn’t leave. He was a doctor and the city needed him.

“Of course. If we can survive the Black Death, what’s a little fire?”

“You said it was enormous!” Hamish protested, making them laugh despite the situation.

“Off now; be good to your mother.” John ruffled Hamish’s hair, earning himself an exasperated sigh, and watched as his wife and child pulled the cart down the street, joining the masses that had the same idea.

~*~

By Monday evening the streets of London had become more dangerous than the flames. Rumours about foreigners setting it spread even faster than the fire and John sustained a painful gash on his left arm when he tried to help a family of Dutch immigrants against an angry mob of Englishmen.  
The vigilantes would end up killing more people than the fire, he thought bitterly as he pressed a cloth to his arm. John was hidden from view in an abandoned backyard, only a few droplets of blood on the ground giving away his journey from the street to here.

A noise near him made him look up and jerk back in shock.

“You need help, mate?” John called out to the man, tall with light hair but with severe burns covering the side of his body. “You’re not looking too well.”

John approached him until he caught sight of sharp teeth. He froze, trying to make sense of what he saw. The man’s eyes were wild and fixed on John’s arm and the blood-stained cloth.

“Mate?” John tried again, left hand moving to the knife hidden in the pocket of his breeches.

Before he could defend himself, however, the man launched at him, moving so fast that John’s eyes could barely follow. The force of the impact propelled John backwards – he tripped and crashed to the ground with his attacker still upon him. John shoved at the man, even buried the knife inside his chest yet that didn’t even give him pause.

Suddenly teeth sank into his upper arm, closing around the wound. John cried out but a strong hand covered his mouth a second later, muffling his screams.

John struggled, tried to flip them over yet the man seemed to be incredibly strong despite his burns and didn’t budge, didn’t give him one inch.

He gasped when the teeth withdrew but there was no reprieve – instead the man sunk them unforgivingly into his throat.

 _Vampire_ , John’s mind supplied while he panicked. It didn’t make sense, vampires didn’t exist after all, but that didn’t explain how a burn victim was bloody well _sucking his blood_ on the dirty ground.

John’s vision blurred around the edges when his attacker finally released him. He couldn’t move, didn’t have the strength. He had no choice but to watch the man flop onto his back, smiling, red fluid dripping down his chin and trickling down his cheeks.

In front of John’s eyes, the burn wounds start to heal.

The startled sound he made drew the man’s – the vampire’s – attention and suddenly the panic that John felt was reflected back at him in the dark eyes of his attacker.

The man cursed and John would have flinched at the sound of such profanity if he had had the energy.

His attacker was whispering now.

“No feeding, they said,” John made out before the stream of words turned into another litany of swears. Then the man’s eyes widened and his lips curled into a smile that didn’t bode well. “No killing, yes, but I don’t have to let you die, do I?”

The man snickered to himself, which would have looked childish on anyone but him. He wrapped a hand around the hilt of John’s knife and pulled it out from where it was still buried between his ribs. John watched while his vision dimmed how the man cut his wrist until it bled and extended his arm.

John used the last strength he had to lock his jaw and squeeze his mouth shut but a strong hand pried it open once more as his attacker’s blood trickled down his wrist until it dropped down into John’s mouth.

“Drink it, drink it and you shall never fear death,” was the last thing John heard before darkness embraced him.

~*~

He didn’t know how much time had passed when he regained consciousness again, nor did his brain remember at that time why he was lying on the dirty ground in a backyard, rain pouring mercilessly onto his still body. John opened his eyes, shielding them against the cold water with his arm and sat up slowly to take in his surroundings.

 _What’s happened?_ , he wondered, rising to his feet and turning around.

Thin tendrils of smoke rose like winding snakes over the rooftops of the surrounding houses, reminding him of the fire that had eaten away at London’s city centre. He felt a sudden hunger in his stomach which was so intense that it propelled him into walking out of the backyard and onto the cobbled, empty street.

Judging by the light that penetrated the thick rainclouds covering the sky, he guessed it must be early afternoon and so he ran along the path in search of people and houses he was familiar with. He only met destroyed homes but not a soul. Everything was burned to the ground, the smell of burned flesh and wood biting into his nose.

The once so great St Paul’s Cathedral was now a sad ruin, only a pile of ashes; its massive stone split apart by the heat of the terrible fire which would be marked in history as the Great Fire of London.

John stumbled past it, remembering now that he had sent his family away from the disastrous horror that had gutted one third of the city within the past two days. His hunger became stronger and after what felt like hours he finally managed to find a way out of the rubble and reached the undestroyed part of the city. He was hit with thousands of smells he had never smelt before, infiltrating his mind and demanding a name for what they were. Confused and overwhelmed, John sat down next to a well that was used to get water from and asked a woman if he could have a sip from her ladle that she used to put water into a cup. She looked at him with kind eyes and gave him a drink.  
That night, she became his first victim after she took him in to tend to his obvious wounds on his neck and arm.

Later he would realise they hadn’t healed as quick as other vampire wounds because he had been bitten, and bite marks inflicted by a vampire always took longer to heal.

He was appalled at himself when he understood that he had been seduced by her blood, water and food not being enough to still his hunger. An unwanted and unnatural instinct drove him to bite and kill her, leaving him trembling and panicked afterwards when he looked at her lifeless body.

 _What have I done?_ , he thought, crumbling down beside her. _I’m a doctor and supposed to save lives, not take them._

John lost track of time as he was crouched next to the woman’s drained body. He only looked up when he caught a sound in the distance, unnaturally far away yet still reaching his ears.

Footsteps.

Yet before John could react, stand up or let alone find a weapon, the door to the tiny hut burst open, revealing a group of five. Instinctively, John sniffed, catching a strange scent he somehow identified as that of other vampires.

The shock of the realisation made him jump to his feet, staring with wide eyes at the man amidst them. Blond, with chiselled features and radiating strength and authority, he stood only a bit taller than John. The stranger took in the scene before his eyes before he turned his attention back to John.

“What is your name?” he asked, his tone curious.

He hesitated, though didn’t see a way out of this situation. “Dr John Watson.”

The corners of the man’s mouth quirked upwards. “A healer. You must be so angry with yourself.”

John averted his eyes, decidedly not looking at his first victim.

“Is your wife still alive?”

The question surprised him for a moment before he remembered his wedding ring. He cleared his throat before whispering, “Yes.”

“Then I take it you will wish to return to her. However, I advise against it in your current stage. You might know the name of what you are, yet not how to live as such.” The man spared him a wry smile. “My name is Henricus Estrode, leader of the Vampire Council of England. Since your Sire seems to be absent, it is the duty of my organisation to see to your successful integration into our society.”

“You want to, what, teach me?” John asked, somewhat daringly. The despair that had consumed him moments ago seemed to vanish slightly.

Were there ways to live as a vampire without being a monster? John somehow doubted that. Yet there before him stood a man, not a beast as John would have imagined vampires to be. Had he found a way, by any chance?

“If that is what you want to call it. Come with me of your own volition and you will learn to control and use your abilities.”

“And if I don’t?” John more wondered than asked.

Estrode bared his fangs at him, a sight that still made John flinch. “I cannot have a rogue youngling roaming the streets in hunger, John.” He glanced at his companions and the four men squared their shoulders. The threat hung unspoken between them.

_Come with us or die._

John sent a silent prayer to the heavens and nodded.

~*~

The time at the Council changed John more profoundly than his Sire’s bite ever could. He learnt of the vampires’ struggles to stay hidden, to conceal their identity, of revolts and insurgences trying to change the status quo. Estrode and his colleagues explained the workings of the Council, how they regulated the number of humans falling victim to vampires, and how to drink from a human without killing them and using a thrall to make them forget the incident.

Most importantly, they taught John how to blend in, to use tricks to hide his true nature. He became versed at hunting animals, draining rats, cats and dogs rather than humans. John thought it was disgusting and was glad when he learnt that he could also sustain his energy by eating bread, fruits and drinking water as long as it wasn’t too much.

Eventually he had to accept that he needed blood and if he didn’t want to harm humans, animals were the only solution.

His senses had become incredibly sharp through his transformation and he could hear people’s heartbeats without touching them. It would serve him well in dealing with future patients.

Estrode became a mentor, someone always ready to dispense advice when needed and one of the few who didn’t judge John for choosing to never drink fresh human blood again. Others sneered at him, taunting him sometimes, yet John stood his ground. He was a doctor, trained to heal, not kill.

“You are ready,” Estrode announced four weeks after taking John in. London was being rebuilt after the fire had consumed too many homes of too many innocent people. John heard rumours that the vampire responsible for the fire had been tried and sentenced to horrible suffering and a long time in the Council’s catacombs.

John didn’t look back. Estrode had allowed him to contact him in the future, yet other than that John had no intention of returning. All he wanted was to see his wife and son again, so he squared his shoulders and left the Council, disappearing into the labyrinth of London’s streets.

~*~

A carriage took him to the south to the village of Dulwich where Mary’s parents owned a small cottage. Compared to London, the air and water here was fresh and clean and John hungered for his wife and son’s company, needing to see if they were alright. He wasn’t worried that they would see the change in him; his appearance hadn’t changed much, only that many old childhood scars had faded away and his skin looked very healthy and unblemished. The grey in his hair had also vanished, giving him a younger look. But still, those were minor things and he was sure that Mary would notice them but not discuss them as long as he came back safely.

He could already smell them from afar and although he didn’t have a heartbeat any longer and he didn’t need to breathe anymore, he felt as if his heart skipped a beat and he took an unconscious deep breath, his feet running from the carriage to the door of the small house as fast as lightning speed. Their reunion was full of tears and big hugs and John felt complete again. The bad news from London had spread quickly and Mary and Hamish had been worried that John had died while treating a patient. Now he could appease them with his presence.

His training with Estrode helped John to be an “invisible” vampire. Although his appetite had lessened – Mary noticed immediately that he didn’t tuck into his food anymore – he could hide that he was hunting rabbits and foxes during the early hours, pretending he needed to go for a walk while everything was still quiet.

They lived two more months in Dulwich until they returned to London which was being slowly rebuilt. They moved into a small house in the area of Regent’s Park which was known at that time as Marylebone Park and set aside as a hunting park. Here John could hunt deer and other animals.

Although he never saw them, he knew vampires working for the Council were watching his family, ensuring that he didn’t give away his real identity. John hated it up until one of those vampires protected his son when he came back late from work and was nearly mugged in a back alley.

Their life was peaceful and happy and one day, Mary told him that she was pregnant again, surprising John who hadn’t expected his wife to become pregnant with his child when he was a vampire.

He went for help to Estrode in a near panic, thinking this “thing”, as he called it, would rip apart his lovely wife but Estrode merely laughed.

“It is rare but not unheard of that humans give birth to healthy hybrids. Those are curious beings, John, with the most fascinating characteristics. They usually inherit all the positive genes of vampires and humans and are very sought after as marriage partners. Consider yourself lucky, John.”

Giddy with happiness, John made everything possible for his wife during the nine months of pregnancy, also urging her to move back to Dulwich as the conditions for giving birth at home with the help of a midwife weren’t the best. Clean water in London had always been a problem.

Mary should have listened to him. With the help of John and a fellow midwife of hers she gave birth to Charlotte, a beautiful little girl with blonde tufts of hair and clear blue eyes, looking very much like John while Hamish looked a lot like Mary. She was a healthy baby and while John went to clean her and put her in white linen sheets, the midwife tended to Mary. With the enticing smell of blood in the room, John was quite glad to leave it and wash his daughter. He should have stayed, he realised afterwards, and made sure the midwife washed her hands properly. That day he learnt the fatal consequences of unclean hands.

Mary died two days after, breaking John’s heart with it. He, Hamish and their newborn managed to get by, trying to cope with the hole Mary had left in their lives, but tragically, Charlotte followed her mother a year after with typhus.

After that, there was nothing left in London for John and his son but painful memories, so they left and settled down in a quiet town in Scotland where his family came from originally.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the first chapter, John survived the Great Fire of London, became a vampire and lost his wife Mary and baby daughter. With his teenage son Hamish, he moved to Scotland to start a new life.

“You cannot do this, Estrode!” Simon Dale groused, and rather loudly at that.

Estrode heaved a sigh and rose from his place behind his desk where he had retreated after the latest Vampire Council meeting. The subject at hand had been the reinstatement of the city-wide feeding ban for London, since his brethren had taken to act carelessly, leaving bodies with puncture wounds in their necks behind for humans to find.

“I must, Dale, I must.”

“Wasn’t the ban after the plague enough? We might be undead but we need to eat, Estrode.”

Simon Dale fancied himself an ascending star in the Vampire Council – he was rather young, and apparently spoke for the common vampire. Estrode saw right through him, however – all Dale wanted was power, and if he needed to pretend to care for the less politically inclined of their kind, so be it.

“And you can; just not humans.”

“You actually do want them to rebel, don’t you? Is that why you are doing this? To provoke insurgence, and drive us to a premature revelation?”

“Premature would imply there are plans for an actual revelation at a later point in time, and that, I can assure you, dear Mr Dale, is not the case.” “All the more reason for you to rescind the new ban!”

“I will do no such thing,” Estrode growled, baring his fangs, which was something he very rarely did when it came to politics simply because it was an unfair intimidation technique. Estrode was older than Dale, considerably so. It was a biological imperative to bow to your superiors for a vampire.

“We will implement the ban. It will not take long, but it is necessary to assure our species’ protection. You will assuage your followers, Mr Dale, and we will survive another year undetected. Do we have an understanding?”

Dale swallowed thickly, giving in to a remnant of his human impulses.

“Yes, sir.”

Estrode waved him off with a curt gesture and resumed the task of opening his mail that had been abandoned after Dale had barged into his office.

Amidst the pile of heavy envelopes Estrode recognised the handwriting of Dr John Watson. They had kept in touch, so Estrode was aware of the untimely death of both the man’s wife and his daughter, whose vampire genes had not saved her from typhus in the end. John never wrote to simply keep in touch, though, and Estrode’s curiosity peaked.

He made quick work of skimming the letter, then set it down slowly. Apparently, the people of Strathaven, the village in the district of Lanarkshire John and his son had settled down in and even found Hamish a wife, were becoming suspicious of John’s youthful appearance. The resulting talk had reached Hamish’ ears as well, and John wanted to tell his son the truth before moving away to avoid detection.

 

_I do not wish to leave him without a reason. Hamish has lost his mother and sister, he should not have to suffer a similar fate with his father, John had written. I hereby request permission from the Council to tell my son about my vampire status._

 

Estrode knew before he pushed back his chair to convene a meeting to deal with this matter that he would testify in favour of John’s request. He only hoped young Hamish would take it well.

~*~

John got word from the Council a week after he had sent his letter and to his relief, his request had been approved. Hamish – now at the age of twenty-five – and he would sit together and talk quite frequently in the absence of his wife, providing ample opportunity for John to make his confession.

The words, “I am a vampire” were the easy part, as it turned out. Convincing his son of their truth was more of an obstacle.

“I have seen you eat,” Hamish argued, “You have never drunk blood. Never!”

“Some food sustains my energy,” John replied patiently. “And the land is vast here, full of mammals I can feed on. As rarely as possible, however. I don’t appreciate the taste in the slightest.” His lips curled into a smile of their own volition, yet Hamish failed to see the humour in his statement.

“That is not funny.”

“Listen, Hamish,” John tried again, “I’m sure you heard the talk. People wondering about why I don’t age, why my hair doesn’t turn grey… This is why. I shall never grow old. Not in appearance, that is. And, unless someone slays me with the necessary means, I shall never die.”

Hamish was still looking at him with wide, unbelieving eyes, so John turned to his last resort. It required a lot of concentration, since he had spent years repressing the urge to bare them in the vicinity of humans.

Now, however, he let them emerge. Hamish grew pale when he realised that his father was in fact growing fangs in front of his eyes.

“You can never tell anyone, Hamish. You have to promise me that.”

At that point, his son merely nodded. Days passed before he brought the topic up again, when they were once again alone. John answered all of Hamish’s questions, talked about his weeks with the Council and how he had obtained a permit to fill Hamish in.

In the end, Hamish understood that the only way to keep John’s true nature a secret was for him to move away. They said their goodbyes and several weeks after John had told his son his biggest secret, he made his way to Glasgow. It was still close to Hamish, yet a larger city, which allowed the vampire to become invisible more easily than a small community ever could. It was very hard for Hamish to let his dear father go as he had grown very close to him after Charlotte and his mother’s death but John promised to write him which was only a small consolation.

If John had the option, he would seek out his sister as well, but ever since the fire of London, no one had heard from her. John refused to believe she had died in the flames, but his attempts to find her had been in vain so far. Maybe it was for the better. Sooner or later, he would lose her anyway. The fate of vampires seemed to be that they outlived everyone they cared about.

~*~

Moving to Glasgow turned out to have been a good decision. John became a well-known doctor who took care of the poorer population in his neighbourhood. Every now and then he went to visit his son, who only met him when his wife was out. He became a father in the same year John told him he was a vampire and presented his newborn son to him. As much as John wanted the baby to know that he was his grandfather, he decided to not see the child anymore when he turned five as he expected the little boy to notice that he wasn’t aging and he didn’t dare to ask the Council again to involve the child in his secret.

Time seemed to be flying by. John had feared the day when his son would die which happened at the age of thirty-eight in 1696. It was normal at that time to die so early, after all John had lost his parents at the age of fourteen but it still hurt John to see his child die. He attended the burial in the shade of a tree to stay away from his family who would just stare at him. And they would have good reason for it. He hadn’t aged a single bit and still looked young and healthy. A deep, hollow ache settled in his chest after leaving the graveyard. Now he didn’t have anybody anymore.

For a long time he sat in his small house in Glasgow, staring at the wall and wondering whether he should go on or end his miserable life. Every friend he made would die after a certain time and he couldn’t bear losing more people who were dear to him. In the end, the decision to stay by himself was easy, though he would not have thought his isolation to last quite as long as it did.

He saw the Glorious Revolution abolish the royal absolutism, the union of Scotland and England bring prosperity to Scotland, and watched the Jakobite wars come and go. The Industrial Revolution in the nineteenth century caused a population increase which tempted many vampires to help get rid of elderly people that were just slowing down the country’s progress.

The Council again enforced their rule of not killing people but many vampires didn’t listen and went on nightly huntings. Others coupled with humans and brought even more hybrids into the world than had existed at that time. Those children were allowed but strictly controlled as they could live in the human and vampire world without needing to hide themselves and always posed a danger that they would help expose the vampire world. In the 1830s many of them were sent to Canada, New Zealand and Australia when other people moved out of the country to settle somewhere else.

The potato blight a decade later caused a great famine among the Scottish population which made work very hard for John as many people were suffering from typhus and cholera. Having faced death so many times now, he had become hard and unfeeling to get through this bad time. He didn’t socialise anymore, nor did he make friends. The only thing that got him going was caring for his patients and helping them survive.

The change from the Victorian era to Imperialism also brought a change for John. Suddenly he was faced with the fact that the world was becoming bigger and England was looking for new territory. To escape boredom and routine in Scotland he joined the Armed Forces and fought in the British-Afghan-Wars, benefiting from a vampire underground organisation which provided him with false papers. He disappeared from the European continent until the outbreak of World War One.

He had watched with awe and fear how much the world had changed by then. Suddenly humans could fly in the sky, use the most vicious weapons to kill other people and drive with cars through the streets. Coming back from Afghanistan to England made him aware how much he had sunk into a depression that blocked his senses from realising what was really happening around him. The only best thing was that he didn’t come back alone from the desert. He had met a comrade whom he could rely on in danger, someone who was also a vampire that had sneaked into the army. His name was Gabriel Moore.

They had met on the battlefield as an enemy soldier put a bullet right through John’s torso. Under normal circumstances, John would have played the part of the wounded soldier, yet looking up he caught a glimpse of another enemy aiming at Gabriel. John tackled the man to the ground – the bullet missed them both just so.

“It wouldn’t have killed me either,” Gabriel remarked when their eyes met.

It took John a moment, but when he caught on, he couldn’t help the smile that blossomed on his face.

“Remind me never to save your life again, then, mate.” John did it nonetheless, if for no other reason than healing wounds would itch in a rather annoying manner and he did not intent to subject his new-found friend to such discomfort.

Gabriel also had a political opinion and was interested in making the human population aware that they were sharing their little planet with mythical creatures but he kept many of his thoughts to himself when he saw that a huge war erupted among vampires during World War One. It wasn’t only that Germany had declared war to all nations, it was also the fact that German vampires wanted to overrule Europe and be the only nation with the sole power over all vampires.

Gabriel decided to join the fight to fight for equality and John let him go, realising that he was probably going to lose the only friend he had made in many years. The depression that held Europe in its grip afterwards was just the next omen for the war that came. This time, the Vampire community in Germany arose from the ashes like a big bad bat and threatened to put all humans into slavery and make them food for all vampires. That was even too much for the other nations and John once again took up arms to prevent the worst.

In the end, Germany was defeated and the constitution amended: Only a certain percentage of humans were allowed to know about the existence of vampires. Those who learnt the truth mostly worked for the drug industry and health care sector, and soon protective creams against the sun’s UV rays and alternatives to human blood flooded the market, tailored to meet the needs of this new target group. Since most vampires had been around for quite some time, they had resources to spend and John imagined the bosses of large corporations laughing mischievously at their luck of discovering an entirely new demographic.

It wasn’t what many vampires had wanted to achieve but many of them felt acknowledged to some degree and glad about the changes in society. The rumour spread among humans that vampires did exist but the average person dismissed it as superstition. Seeing as vampires blended in with the masses and weren’t recognisable on the street, it was easy for sceptics to only see what they wanted to see.

Peace settled down in Europe and John felt a heavy weight being lifted from his shoulders when his friend came back safely from the war. Britain had suffered hard from the enemy’s attacks on their major cities but it soon experienced prosperity again. Seduced by the big city’s anonymity and wealth, John turned his back on Scotland to return to London in the 1960s.

London was already a buzzing metropolis at that time. It was much different to Edinburgh or Glasgow and gave John the feeling he could start a new life here. His bad memories of losing his wife and child were moving into the background now, making room for something incredibly new.

He moved to Chelsea, a posh and affluent area in Central London, and bought a house in a side street of King’s Road. Gabriel also moved here, fell in love with a human woman he soon thereafter married and who gave him a child. For a decade, John’s life was dominated by routine as a local doctor until, one sunny day in 1978, a new family moved in next door.

Their name was Holmes.

Never would John have anticipated getting so much involved with this family until Mrs Hudson, his neighbour’s children’s nanny, entered his surgery one day with a two-year-old boy. That was the day he met William Sherlock Scott Holmes. He was a very shy and cute little boy at that time and he didn’t look at all like his mother with his dark brown hair, much more like his father. He had caught the measles and looked rather miserable when he was brought into the surgery. John expected him to cry and fuss when he had a look at him like other children usually did, but the boy just sat calmly on his chair and watched him like a hawk the entire time.

It was a little unnerving to feel these celadon eyes boring into him but John tried to not think much of it. He talked to Mrs Hudson about Sherlock’s condition, gave her a receipt for medicine and then dismissed them like any other patient.

One week later – he had just come back from work and was walking along the pavement to his flat – a beautiful blonde lady stepped into his way. He recognised her immediately by her eyes. They were the same shade as Sherlock’s and she had the same shaped mouth.

“Oh, good evening, Dr Watson, it’s such a pleasure to meet you. Thank you very much for your help. Sherlock is feeling so much better now. I hope he was a good little boy when he went to see you,” she said in a very pleasant voice.

For a moment, John didn’t know what to say. He had seen Mrs Holmes from afar but up close she was even more beautiful. His non-beating heart stuttered to a halt. What was he thinking? He couldn’t feel attracted to her! She was married and a mother of two children.

John took a tentative step backwards and smiled at her.

“He was,” he said kindly. “It’s great to hear he’s feeling much better. It was my pleasure to help.”

Mrs Holmes smiled at him.

“It would be our pleasure to invite you for dinner one day,” she said, turning to go. “Have a good day, Dr Watson.”

“You too,” he said, watching her disappear on the steps and behind the door of her house with a twinkle in her eyes.

John was instantly smitten and very soon he figured out that her name was Diane.

~*~

If Henricus Estrode thought the 1960s had been exhausting and unnerving, he did not know how to describe the 1970s. However, underneath his exasperation with the human tendency to continuously cause trouble by challenging established norms lay a fascination with their race’s inability to stand still.

Everything was constantly changing. He might not have had to deal with the unrest the Civil Rights Movement caused his colleagues in the American Vampire Council, but the current economic downturn threatened to undo the tentative peace amongst the Vampire community of the United Kingdom once again.

The sexual revolution amongst humans opened up a whole new market to be explored. Bars and fetish clubs catering to humans with a preference for vampires opened as strictly members-only and the Council had a hard time regulating them, especially given the increased risk of hybrid offspring.

Yet everything turned out to be fine in the end. Humans in the know with a kink for blood play were a legal food source for many vampires, even though prostitution and coercion created new problems. After all it wouldn’t be Estrode’s unlife if there wasn’t trouble somewhere in the vampire community.

He himself rarely frequented establishments such as Fangtasia, a global chain of vampire bars, but sometimes he had to attend meetings in such places (meetings of the shadier kind, that is). It was always a fascinating experience to see his fellow vampires lose themselves in the kind of ecstasy that had never really held much appeal for Estrode, not even when he was human, which explained why he had remained childless all his life. But not even he could resist fresh blood when it was so willingly given, so he occasionally indulged, leaving the blood bags in his fridge a little while longer.

A tall man sat down next to him, interrupting his reminiscing. Estrode didn’t need to glance over to know who had joined him at the bar, waving down the barman for a glass of blood.

“Mr Magnussen.”

“Mr Estrode. I have what you requested.”

Without further ado, the man retrieved a file from his suitcase and slid it across the countertop. Estrode opened it long enough to ascertain that the information he had requested was inside, then stowed it away to study in depth later in the car to his office.

“Thank you.” Estrode nodded, put a few pounds down before getting up. “Enjoy your drink, Mr Magnussen, and your stay here.”

“I always do, Mr Estrode.”

The drive from Fangtasia to his office was long and granted enough time to look through what Magnussen had found. Apparently there still was no word on the exact whereabouts of Sebastian Moran, but a few other vampires of interest had been sighted in Belfast. There hadn’t been any bombings since March 1976, which was three years ago, but the IRA was still strong and committed to their cause. Why some vampires thought they had a place amongst the fighters was beyond Estrode, but daft vampires had always existed all around the globe.

Magnussen was not one of those. He had established one of the very first English newspapers in 1621, had become a vampire a few years later and had since plagued the Council’s existence as one of the most powerful men of the country, maybe even of Europe.

 _Information is power_ had always been Magnussen’s motto and he went about acquiring it ruthlessly. Humans thought his news agency had simply been passed from father to son for three centuries, but the Council knew better. Estrode wouldn’t go as far as to say Magnussen had them under his control, but it was a precarious situation with a very fine balance.

Magnussen was granted certain liberties, had been allowed to feed off humans even during bans, got away with heinous actions… and yet they needed him. He was a nuisance, granted, though also a helpful ally, especially in times of war, given his vast network of informants.

Estrode disliked him greatly. That didn’t stop him from using his services. Another piece of paper caught his attention then. It was a photograph, showing a young woman. Her blonde hair was dishevelled and dull, her skin paler than considered healthy – even for a vampire.

The picture and the accompanying information proved what Estrode had long since suspected: Harriet Watson, after years of absence, had reappeared in England just in time for the invention of designer drugs for vampires. Whole nests of addicts existed throughout the country and the Council did their best to find them and clean them out if they were causing trouble. If not, they were left alone. Vampires who spend their immortality completely removed from reality in a haze of drugs, willing humans and sex didn’t hurt anyone and the Council really had better things to do.

Harriet Watson, however, was a special case. While John had not asked for this, Estrode set out to locate her nevertheless. It might not have been him that sired John, yet after centuries of regular contact, of acting as his friend and advisor, Estrode had come to look upon John as his childe and thus cared for him in his own way. Finding his sister was going to be a surprise and only two months ago Estrode would have sent word to John immediately that his sister currently was in Liverpool.

Yet after John’s last letter it was a different situation. He had spoken at length about a new family that had moved to his neighbourhood, their two sons - three and ten years old.

Especially the manner in which John talked about the mother, Diane Holmes, caught Estrode’s attention. She seemed to be beautiful, intelligent and an all-around perfect woman. John seemed happier with her in his life than he had been for decades, if not centuries.

Of course Estrode would have to keep a close eye on the developments – Diane Holmes was married, after all, and John’s longing tone indicated that he was struggling with an attraction that went beyond neighbourly friendliness. However, he didn’t want to act too quickly. John had spent too much time depressed and secluded. He deserved more from his immortality.

Barging into his life now with news about his sister would not only take him away from Chelsea and rob the area of a gifted doctor, but also cause John much personal suffering. Since if he actually managed to find his sister and persuade her to come with him, getting her back on her feet would be a task of monumental proportions.

No, Estrode decided even before the car reached its destination. He would keep quiet about John’s sister and watch out for the man.

~*~

John had indeed developed an attraction for Mrs Holmes which he was able to hide for a whole year. As promised he was invited quite frequently for dinner and he enjoyed having animated conversations with Mr Holmes who was a lawyer and quite influential in his profession. His eldest son Mycroft looked up to him and was a very good student, striving to be admitted into Sevenoaks School in Kent, one of the most expensive boarding schools in the United Kingdom, when he turned eleven.

On many occasions, Mrs Holmes invited him on evenings when her husband had to work late. Very soon Mrs Hudson watched it with a very careful eye and Mycroft, who had always been a very clever boy, didn’t like it when his Mummy got all giggly and excited when Dr Watson came over. Little Sherlock didn’t mind at all. First he had been careful and quiet but as soon as he realised that John was a very funny and imaginative person, who liked to play with children, he started to trust him and invited him to his pretend plays.

The Holmes had a big garden, at least big enough to play hide-and-seek and build makeshift tents with blankets over low-hanging trees. Sherlock’s favourite game was playing Peter Pan which his brother, of course, found childish and ridiculous. He hid in the house with a book when John pretended to be John from James Barrie’s story while Sherlock was imitating Captain Hook with a pirate sword and fork in one hand. It was the best fun the little boy ever had when he was as young as three. John wasn’t as boring as his parents and brother. He may have been ordinary but he was very interesting. Sherlock hadn’t developed a mind palace at that point yet like his brother had to keep only important information in his brain, but John got a special room in his head where he stored all memories with him.

Unfortunately, his strict father did not like how Sherlock was spending all of his time recently. He never allowed Sherlock to go over to visit John at his house and have some fun playing pretend, rather he demanded him to grow up and stop the silly pirate games. Mycroft always just raised an eyebrow at his little brother who cried when he found the garden door locked. Sometimes his mother would get the key and let him out but when his father found out that Sherlock had attempted to climb over the fence to John’s adjacent garden, he grounded him and didn’t let him see the man for a long time, literally forcing his wife to make the awkward visit and go over to his house to have tea with him. Awkward, in that John was yet to marry and her presence in his home would surely ignite rumours amongst the neighbours.

That was when everything went downhill. John had known for a while now that he desired Diane in a way that would be deemed inappropriate by most of society. She was married and had children – John should keep his distance.

Yet he invited her into his house again and again, the accidental touches becoming more frequent and especially longer in their duration. Diane relished the conversations they shared, basking in the attention and John couldn’t resist showering her in compliments, praising her in ways he knew her husband never did.

“He doesn’t see me,” Diane whispered one cold afternoon. “No matter what I do.”

“I see you,” John told her, grasping her hand and squeezing it gently.

Their eyes met and in that moment, John knew they were both doomed. Only his death could have stopped him from leaning forward, from closing the distance between them and sealing his lips over hers. They fell into bed that same day, and Diane made it back to their home just in time for her husband’s return.

It was like a dam had broken after that. Whenever Diane and John could make the time, they would meet up. They didn’t lie together every time; sometimes they merely enjoyed each other’s company. Before long John knew he had fallen for this woman just as fiercely as he had for Mary in her time.

However, John never thought to ask for permission to reveal his secret. He took great care to hide the things in his home specific to his nature and Diane never got suspicious, even though the bed looked like no one had slept in it for days and the fridge was half-empty all of the time. John had begun to store his blood bags in the cold basement.

Their affair went on unnoticed for a whole year, very often at John’s house but then they got careless and continued secret kisses at Mrs Holmes’ house too.

Seeing how gentle John was with the boys, especially Sherlock, Diane started to wish he were her husband. Sherlock was always so happy to see him and got encouragement from his visits as her husband very often subdued the bubbly and rather unique child. In personality, her little one was so much like her and, of course, John liked him.

This secrecy ended in a disaster. It was the year when Mycroft entered boarding school and Sherlock was in reception. On a cold Sunday evening, after dropping off their eldest at Sevenoaks School with the family car, the Holmes Family was on their way back to London. It was November and typical for that time of year, very misty and damp outside. Mr Holmes was driving the Honda down the empty, dark streets while Diane was dozing off and Sherlock was sleeping in the back. Out of the blue he confronted his wife with what the neighbours had been whispering about her and John and because Diane denied it, the conversation grew heated and loud. Sherlock woke up to his parents shouting and the bright lights of a lorry coming their way. His scream was the last thing they all heard before they were hit frontally and thrown off the road into a ditch.

Only a few kilometres away in a patch of wood, John whipped around from where he was hunting in the misty grounds. As a vampire he had exceptional hearing and the crash echoed far and wide. A sense of foreboding overcame him as he sprinted through the damp grass until he reached the road. The sweet, coppery smell of human blood was strong in the air but only when he was close to the demolished car did he realise whom it belonged to.

If his heart could beat, it would have broken out of his chest as panic flooded him.

John was the first to arrive at the horrible scene of the accident. Darkness surrounded him, broken only by the flickering light of the damaged car. Although overtaken by grief that it was his beloved Diane, who was dead at the scene just like her husband, he didn’t waste any time and ripped open the dented door of the backseat when he heard Sherlock’s agonised whimpers. The little boy had been saved by his car seat but he had suffered a severe head injury which was bleeding profusely. Carefully, he unstrapped the four-year-old from the seat and pulled him gently out of the car.

“Hush, Sherlock,” John whispered soothingly to the crying child, cradling him close. “I’ll take care of you.”

He avoided walking past the front seats, so neither he nor Sherlock could see Diane and her husband. The smell of death was hurting John’s nose and with tears in his eyes he ran off in the dark to the next town to call an ambulance.

Sherlock was taken care of in a London hospital and John informed Mrs Hudson of the incident. She had to break the news of their parents’ death to poor Sherlock and Mycroft who both took it naturally rather badly. Mycroft was the most affected of the two as he mourned the loss of his father more than Sherlock. Now was the question what would happen to the children and John already prepared himself to ensure that he could be the one to look after them. It was a long time ago, but he had been a father to two children before. Luckily, the parents had left a will that designated Mrs Hudson to be the children’s personal and property guardian which meant that she could manage the children’s inherited money and take care of them until they were eighteen.

As she couldn’t afford keeping the house in Chelsea, an estate agency sold it for her and she used the money to move with her husband and the children to a house in West London. John followed them as he couldn’t stay in the area where everything reminded him of Diane and their illicit tragic affair. He felt incredibly guilty about what had happened and he told Estrode about his grief. Again he had lost a woman he loved and he started to believe that he didn’t have any luck with keeping partners with him. Another reason for moving was also the whispering neighbours. He didn’t want to see their reproachful faces when they came to his surgery.

He found a nice little house close to where Mrs Hudson had moved and started working at the local hospital. He spent nearly every evening with the small family – Mycroft only came home on the weekends as he was enrolled at his school until he turned eighteen – and watched Sherlock grow up.

With every day that passed he felt their connection growing stronger. He wrote Estrode about the developments, worried about the strong attachment that was blooming in him for the boy. He couldn’t help but wonder how far it would progress – would he fall in love with the boy? Would he start lusting after him?

John managed to push all those thoughts aside and enjoyed the nice chatty evenings with the Hudsons and Sherlock who revealed to be a very bright mind that could unravel many secrets about people which was not always appreciated. It caused some trouble at his school, making him an outcast very early on. No one wanted to befriend this weird, tall boy with the piercing eyes and long face who could tell that you stole money from your father’s wallet or that you copied homework from your friend. It caused Sherlock to draw back into himself and become even more observant for he was always alone.

At the age of ten, Sherlock had developed a sharp wit, a dark humour and sensitivity for his surroundings that it surprised John on many occasions. It didn’t help his growing fascination for the boy at all. He had become very protective of him, although he also cared for Mycroft when he was at home. The eldest Holmes brother had grown into a promising young man who had passed his A levels with distinction and would surely graduate to become a student at one of the most prestigious universities of the country.

~*~

It all escalated on a truly dreadful day in May. It had been raining since morning and when John came to the Holmes residence that evening after a long shift at the hospital, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh, he’s out and about, doing one of his experiments,” Mrs Hudson filled him in as she served him tea. “I hope he comes back soon, he’ll catch his death out there.”

John’s chest clenched in worry while he chatted mindlessly with the woman until the front door opened and Sherlock stomped inside, drenched from head to toe in water and mud.

“Not one step further, young man,” Mrs Hudson chided as Sherlock tried to advance into the house. “I’ll get you a towel. These clothes won’t pass the threshold.”

“What have you been up to?” John asked lightly to distract the young boy who glared at his guardian.

“Analysing the relation between spray pattern and density of puddles,” Sherlock replied airily. His voice was still young. John wondered how it would change during puberty.

Just then Mrs Hudson returned, urging Sherlock to shed his mud-caked clothes. John stood back, watching the proceedings in case Sherlock lost his balance as he shimmied out of his trousers. It was only when John’s eyes were drawn to the boy’s bare chest that he realised what he had been doing.

He flinched back as if scolded, glad that Sherlock was too busy grumbling complaints at having to get clean. John stood, frozen, in the room until Mrs Hudson’s return jostled him back to reality.

“Everything alright, dear?” she asked. “You don’t seem so well.”

“I, uh,” John started, at a loss for words. If he lied too blatantly, Sherlock would see through it immediately and start asking questions when he returned to find him gone. “I just remembered that I forgot to prepare something for my shift tomorrow. I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay.”

Back at his own house, John spent the next hour pacing the living room. If he had been alive his pulse would have been racing.

Sherlock was nothing more than a child, far too young to be lusted after. Granted, as a vampire John had a different attitude to age, but still some lines were not meant to be crossed. Not that every vampire felt that way – John had heard stories about certain circles where children would be seduced to function as donors. Apparently their blood tasted purer than an adult’s, yet John had never wanted to test that theory. He needed to put distance between himself and the youngest Holmes, for both their sakes.

~*~

Salvation came two days later, during which time John had barely slept or eaten. It was a letter from Estrode, written in urgent hand, informing him that his sister had been sighted in South America.

_She does not seem to be well. We suspect she might be in league with dubious folk, John. I know you have been worried about her and it seems you had every reason. The Council will enable you to travel to her last known place of residence and bring her back to the UK._

John was very much surprised. His sister was a vampire? So his fears that his own fate had met her were confirmed. He needed to see her immediately. After all he hadn’t seen her for centuries and obviously one thing hadn’t changed. She was still someone who got herself easily into trouble.

He took the necessary steps for his absence, tasked Mrs Hudson to find a temporary lodger for his house, left the hospital and bade his goodbye to Sherlock who could not for the life of him understand why he would not be allowed to accompany John on his journey.

“I will be back,” John assured him before pulling the child into a hug. Sherlock clung to him and mumbled about all the things he would miss to see, like the River Amazon or the rain forest. But mostly John.

John laughed and promised to bring him a souvenir before walking away, certain that a bit of space would do both of them good.

~*~

When he found Harry, his sister was strung out on drugs of unknown nature, though John suspected it was one of the newer designer products that had flooded the American market recently.

John gathered her too thin form into his arms and carried her out of the decaying building and into his rented car. He drove carefully until they reached the local Council in Manaus, a city with two million inhabitants and quite a Vampire population. It took three days for Harry to open her eyes. Any human would have died, but thankfully there was no such thing as drug overdose for vampires.

“John,” she rasped in wonder as her eyes found him.

“I’m here,” he assured her. “You’ll be okay.”

They were allowed to stay in Brazil for as long as they needed. It took two months until Harry was strong enough again to travel the long way back to the United Kingdom. The fact that South American vampire policies allowed recuperating vampires human blood to regain their health certainly helped. Back in England, they took up residence with the Council upon Estrode’s behest.

“She will need training as well as continuous therapy,” he told John, who didn’t argue. As a doctor he knew what these drugs did to a vampire’s restraint and self-control – namely, shattering it. Harry had to learn how to function again while John was on a different mission: put inappropriate thoughts of a certain young boy out of his mind. In the end it was four years before John deemed Harry ready to be left by herself and decided to return to his old house. Harry had flourished and even got herself a job and had been going out with a nice vampire girl named Clara for a while now. Clara technically was her superior at the Council, though the Vampire community had always been progressive and tolerated such relationships. John knew Harry was in good hands with her.

John’s return journey was brief, yet he had miscalculated and hit heavy traffic. Definitely a part of the modern world he could have done without, he groused. It was no help and by the time he reached his house, the sun was already low on the horizon.

The previous tenants had moved away several months ago, but John had told Mrs Hudson not to look for new ones since he would be returning soon. So it came to a big surprise to hear movement inside the house when he opened the door. His eyes immediately darted around the room, looking for anything he might use as a weapon, only to be fundamentally waylaid when the source of the noise appeared in the doorway to the living room.

Four years of absence had done Sherlock Holmes good. He stood quite a bit taller than when John had last seen him. His hair was longer, too, and tousled. The top two buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned and revealed pale skin and an elegant neck. The young man was stunning, there was no point denying that, and John, after years of trying to forget, was faced with the inevitable truth that his absence had not erased the attraction he had felt four years ago.

“Hello, John. You should have accounted for traffic.”

John blinked at him. Sherlock’s voice was deeper now, but rather pleasantly so. He liked the way his name sounded now.

“It’s good to see you, too, Sherlock,” John finally managed. “Why are you inside my house?”

The boy snorted, clearly unimpressed with John’s lack of deductive skills. “It was to be vacant until you returned and I needed space for my experiments. Don’t touch anything in the kitchen. The data is sensitive.”

With that, Sherlock turned on his heels and vanished from sight. John heaved a sigh, running a hand through his hair. Lusting after a fourteen-year-old was only marginally better than lusting after a ten-year-old.

Then Sherlock’s last remark caught up with him.

“Oi! What are you doing in my kitchen?! People eat there!” he explained and followed Sherlock against his better judgement.

Sherlock rapidly explained in complicated words that John barely followed what he was concocting while moving about and taking notes. John’s eyes traced his smooth movements until he caught himself staring.

“So, how long ‘till I get my kitchen back?” John wondered, hoping against the odds that Sherlock might actually answer.

“Oh, maybe another week or two.”

John opened his mouth to argue but decided any effort would be in vain. Instead, he went back to his car to retrieve his belongings. Seeing Sherlock regularly after his realisation had been detrimental to his sanity – what would being in his vicinity do to John?

He swallowed hard and opened his trunk.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In chapter two, John let Hamish in on his secret, joined the army, fell in love with Sherlock Holmes's mother and took care of the young boy after his parents died. Estrode found Harriet and John left London for some years just to return to a teenage Sherlock and realise that his infatuation with him hadn't diminished.

John's return and lack of visible change didn't go unnoticed by Mrs Hudson and Sherlock. The latter had already wondered for a long while now, even before John left, why he didn't seem to age. When he was ten Sherlock had got his first library card and visited the local library as often as he could, practically devouring every book that gave him information about human biology, what people did to look younger and stories and myths about people who hadn't aged for decades.

By the age of fourteen he had come to the conclusion that John either owned some medication or cream that made him look like thirty-eight or that he hid a much darker secret.

As soon as he had gained access to John's old home, he had checked it for any clues and had come across an old, empty blood bag that was pushed underneath a cupboard in the dusty basement. His experiments had revealed that it was blood type A, which matched John's, and Sherlock had also found an empty sun cream bottle labelled with a brand name he had never heard of. The remnants of the lotion didn't smell like any sun cream he had ever come across.

All these things allowed for only one possible conclusion: John had to be a vampire. His brother, who had entered a posh university in London, had also given him clues that the myths about vampires were true. He had met people who knew others who were quite certain that the government was holding back information about the existence of vampires among human society.

At seeing John again, Sherlock was sure that he belonged to them. He watched the man every time they met, always careful that John didn't notice because he feared that John would leave again, but then for good if he confronted him with his deductions. So Sherlock kept quiet and enjoyed every day he saw John. He was completely oblivious about John's deep affection for him and felt as comfortable around him as he had before John left.

It was shortly before his fifteenth birthday; Christmas was already over, when Sherlock showed up late on John's doorstep. It was snowing lightly, the white flakes catching the light of the streetlamps while clinging to Sherlock's brown curls and blue coat.

"Hello, Sherlock," John greeted him with a warm smile. His hair was slightly damp from a shower and he was dressed in a dark green dressing gown. "It's quite late already. Is something the matter?"

~*~

_**Two hours earlier** _

Sherlock was not overly fond of Christmas (at least not since he had researched its origin and discovered how many lies and deceit had occurred to form the holiday), yet the time always made for good experiments.

This year Mrs Hudson had decided to put actual candles on their Christmas tree. They emanated a soft, warm light that bathed the living room and reflected off the surfaces around the room. It had looked beautiful on the morning of Christmas Day, even Sherlock had to admit that.

Now, however, a few days later, the room was dark and the candles almost burnt to stumps. Some still had more wax than others, which got Sherlock wondering which conditions led to this effect. Minutes later he was going through the drawers, trying to remember where Mrs Hudson kept the spare candles but, of course, Sherlock hadn’t saved this information and deleted it, unaware that it would be of interest for an experiment later on.

He found them eventually and exchanged the old candles against new ones, then designed a spread sheet where he noted the delay with which he had lit each candle. The next step meant waiting for the candles to burn, though Sherlock grew bored rather quickly. In retrospect it might not have been the best idea to leave the living room and tend to the fungi he was secretly growing and monitoring in his room… yet leave the room he did.

A shriek from downstairs jolted him from his thoughts a little while later and he flew down the stairs in fear Mrs Hudson would damage his experiment. However, it had collapsed on its own – apparently one candle had been loose and, while burning down, tipped to the side and against the curtains. Which were currently on fire along with the tree. Mrs Hudson was already wielding a fire extinguisher and ruining the remnants of Sherlock’s experiment before he could object.

"Sherlock!" she shouted when she saw him, using a tone of voice he had never heard her use before. "What have you done? The house could have burnt down! You could have been hurt! What were you thinking?"

He tried to explain but the mere mention of the word 'experiment' made the woman explode anew, accusing Sherlock of reckless behaviour and stupidity and alternating this with uncomfortably tight hugs and woeful exclamations of "You could have died in the fire!"

In the end, Mrs Hudson's anger won out. Sherlock knew on a primal level that the old woman was just scared because humans tended to be afraid of fire, and that this was the reason for her vicious dressing-down. It should not have hurt like it did.

Yet it stung, hearing her call him reckless and daft, wondering 'what would your parents think'. The last one was worst. Sherlock could not explain the pain he felt, could not deal with the situation. He ran out of the house and into the cold night, barely remembering to bring his coat.

It was snowing, though Sherlock did not pay the flakes any heed. His feet carried him on their own accord, through icy wind and dark alleys until he was standing in front of John's house.

Something in his chest loosened at the sight but he needed more, needed to see the man. He rang the bell, eager for the door to open. When it did, John smiled warmly at him in his dressing gown and shower-damp hair.

"Hello, Sherlock. It's quite late already. Is something the matter?"

"May I come in?" John's eyes narrowed slightly but he stepped aside, offering him tea and following him into the living room once the mugs were filled. Sherlock sat down next to John on the couch, his body betraying his need for contact, for the kindness John always sent his way after Mrs Hudson’s harsh comments.

"What’s the matter?" John asked, now clearly worried.

"I might have miscalculated…"

"I guess this has to do with one of your experiments?"

Sherlock nodded meekly and recounted how he wanted to determine the impact of candle placement on burning time on Christmas trees. John chuckled at that and for some reason Sherlock could not quite explain, something warm spread through his chest.

However, John was not laughing anymore when he explained about the fire.

"Mrs Hudson was quite angry," Sherlock finished, gripping his mug tighter while he stared into the amber liquid, a shade only John was able to make and which was always Sherlock's favourite taste.

"Well, you have to see her point as well, Sherlock," John said. "She was worried about you. Fire is dangerous."

A shadow passed through John's eyes but before Sherlock could investigate it further, it was gone.

"She needn’t have said those things," he grumbled, huddling into the sofa and shuffling closer towards John without drawing attention to it.

"What else did she say?"

"That I was risking all our possessions and our lives… And she wondered what my parents would think of me."

Sherlock's expression must have betrayed him, for John's features immediately softened to something akin to pity – though it was not pity. John would never pity him. Empathy, maybe. One of these emotions John seemed to have aplenty, always bestowing it on others without thinking of himself first.

"Oh, Sherlock.” John regarded him for a moment, his face a picture of conflicting thoughts, until one finally won out. "You look like you need a hug."

"A hug?"

"Yes. It is when someone puts their arms around you and holds you close."

"I know what a hug is," Sherlock snapped, though there was not much fire behind it. "Why? Mrs Hudson has already nearly crushed me with hers."

"I’m not Mrs Hudson," John emphasised.

Sherlock nodded slowly.

"Okay. Will it help?"

"I think so. We can always stop when it doesn't."

Slightly reluctant, Sherlock put his mug on the coffee table and shifted closer still when John opened his arms tentatively. He closed them around Sherlock's shoulders as he huddled into the man's side. The warmth in his chest was blossoming. The sensation was strange, foreign to Sherlock but somehow familiar as well. It was pleasant and Sherlock was under no delusion that this was only the case because the person hugging him was John. Mrs Hudson's hugs never felt like that. Unfortunately, he couldn’t remember what it had felt like when his mother hugged him. He had been too small to remember.

The bad thoughts stumbling over one another in his mind quieted the longer Sherlock pressed against John's body, shifting and arranging themselves into a more comfortable position. It was peaceful, something Sherlock rarely felt. He smiled contentedly into John's dressing gown, tea completely forgotten.

He closed his eyes after a while, getting very drowsy very quickly and suddenly his brain had gone offline and he was asleep in John's arms.

~*~

John himself felt very conflicted; holding Sherlock in his arms was completely innocent but his body was reacting to the heat – it had been quite a long while since someone had warmed his bed – and as soon as he heard from Sherlock's even breaths that the teenager had fallen asleep, he bent his head down and buried his nose in the soft, dark curls. Their smell was intoxicating but not as much as Sherlock's blood that was humming beneath his pale skin. Not even realising what he was doing, John pressed his nose to Sherlock's neck and groaned silently when the pleasant smell invaded his nostrils. Within seconds he felt heat pool in his groin, and its physical manifestation nudged through the layers of his pyjama trousers and gown against Sherlock's hand resting high on John's thigh.

 _Oh, my God_ , John thought mortified, pulling away carefully and making sure that Sherlock didn't wake up. _You're such a pervert, John._

He was about to get off the sofa when Sherlock opened one sleepy eye and snaked an arm around John's neck.

"Don't leave me alone," he pleaded softly.

"I won't," John promised, relieved his voice wasn't betraying his feelings.

"But you can't stay here, Sherlock. You better go home now. I'm sure Mrs Hudson is already very worried about you."

"I don't want to go home. May I stay here? Please, John."

 _Dear Lord, help me_ , John thought when the boy's last words were tinged in a dark timbre. He just couldn't say no to Sherlock. He looked so small and helpless that John's nature was rebelling against sending him home.

"Alright," John relented with a sigh, "But no sleeping on the sofa. And I will inform Mrs Hudson where you are."

Sherlock pouted but then he nodded and let John carry him upstairs to the guest bedroom.

 

That night, John had to take care of his persisting hard-on and the disturbing thoughts that invaded his mind, showing him what he could do with Sherlock if he had the intentions. He felt dirty and disgusted. As much as he liked Sherlock he couldn't let the boy find out about his attraction to him. He might be oblivious now but very soon his hyperactive brain would catch on to what was going on and then John would be very much embarrassed about Sherlock finding out.

It hurt to decide to disappear out of Sherlock's life. He didn’t want to get into trouble with the law by committing a crime in seducing a minor. It frightened him because it would not only bring trouble for him but also Sherlock. He didn't deserve that. He was supposed to grow up in a loving and sheltered environment that didn't take advantage of him.

Under the disguise of leaving the country for a job in the States, John bid goodbye to the Holmes and Hudsons. Sherlock was visibly angry about it and refused to acknowledge John's departure. The last time John saw him for many years, he was waving up to Sherlock's window on the first floor with the boy turning around and disappearing into the room, his face hard as stone.

Mrs Hudson hugged him tight and wished him well before he got into a cab and headed off. He went back to his sister and settled down in Liverpool where he opened a small practice. It wasn't easy to push his memories of Sherlock away but with time he managed, although it left a gap in his heart which he kept tucked away from everyone.

The Vampire Council and Estrode helped to wipe away any trace of him to prevent anybody from finding him. The only person who knew where he had gone was his friend Gabriel. He was his link to London that kept him updated about his own small family and what was going on in the capital.

John spent the next sixteen years looking after his sister and helping her partner when Harry relapsed and endeavoured to get clean once more, but in general his life was uneventful. Something which made him content but also made him aware that something important was missing. When another war in Afghanistan broke out, John decided to end the monotony of his life and joined the RAMC where his skills allowed him to work as an army doctor. Again procuring fake documentation, giving him a false name and date of birth along with stellar educational background eased his way into the military. He didn't go alone, however. His friend Gabriel joined him as his comrade in battle.

~*~

**_2010 – 20 years after leaving London_ **

This tour was not Billy Murray's first rodeo, as they said. He had seen gruesome things, heroic things… but never anything quite like Osmond Sacker and his best mate. They got out of situations no one should be able to get out of, unscathed nonetheless, just to barge into the next danger that presented itself. Osmond was a fellow medic, just like Bill, and when it came to missions that needed medical personnel able to hold their own in the field, Osmond and Bill usually were their first choice.

Yet all good things end sooner or later, and this case was no different. Bill had seen what happened to rorty soldiers, had treated their wounds in battle when no medic was around, had seen them cry as the life left them.

The shot rang out – a last one, well-aimed, fired before their own grenade took the shooter out. Osmond Sacker went down, dropping to the ground in an agonised heap. Bill was at his side in an instance, certain his comrades would cover him as he worked off Osmond's uniform to see the damage.

Shoulder shot, the bullet still lodged inside. Osmond would make it, even though they would undoubtedly have to discharge him. Bill knew he couldn't do anything in the field, so he was about to simply dress the wound until they were back at base where they could operate when something peculiar caught his eye.

The veins surrounding the wound were turning black, the skin becoming inflamed in a shade of angry red that Bill had never seen before. The bullet was doing something to Osmond and Bill had to change his diagnosis on the spot. He searched Osmond's bag for medical supplies, gloves, anything to make this even remotely more sterile, yet a hand on his wrist stopped him.

"Just take it out," Osmond hissed – for it was a hiss, no other word for it – and presented his shoulder.

Bill looked around, glad that the others were securing the perimeter and ensuring that all hostiles had been taken care of. Then, with another glance to Osmond, he dug his fingers into the wound, feeling for the shell of the bullet that caused so much pain. Osmond didn't scream.

It didn't take long until the projectile lay in Bill's palm, bloodied but unmistakeably a grey-white bullet, strange marking on the shell.

A soldier who was never hurt and a bullet that managed what so many others had not. Realisation dawned on Bill with sudden clarity. Osmond was a vampire.

~*~

John had rarely been so nervous in his life. He had seen the exact moment Bill had pieced the clues together. He would have talked to John's superiors by now and any moment they would barge into the hospital room and take him into custody.

How severe would his punishment be? Would his friendship with Estrode be enough to save John from having his fangs pulled?

All too soon the doors opened, but instead of the officer John had expected, two other men entered, both dressed similar to British soldiers with subtle differences. They were meant to blend in yet did not seem to have any affiliation with John and his comrades.

"John Watson?" one of them, tall and black, broad shoulders, asked. John swallowed and nodded. There was no use asking how they knew his real name. A description of him would have sufficed for any member of the Council to identify him.

"Follow us."

They gave him a moment to button up his uniform, still sporting a hole where the bullet had hit, before exiting the room and leading John deep into the administrative part of the base. They entered a room and made it clear that John was supposed to sit on a chair at a minimalistic table. There was another one opposite him yet neither of the armed men took it. Instead, they waited until the door opened once more, stood to attention and saluted the man who seemed to be John's judge.

He was tall, his auburn hair neatly styled, his face blank. It were his eyes, though. Eyes John recognised. He might have gained a bit more around the middle and age might have left its mark, but there was no mistaking him.

The man who sat down opposite him was Mycroft Holmes.

"It's been a long time, Mr Watson. You haven't aged a day."

John cleared his throat. "I'm sure you will have guessed why that is by now."

"I assure you there was no guessing involved, Mr Watson. Bill Murray identified you the moment he retrieved that bullet. It was designed to kill you, or those of your kind. Quite an effort to go to, unless one knows where it will be of use."

"You're saying someone knew it would work on me?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, giving no other indication of his thoughts on the matter. "This does not seem to frighten you."

"Once you have lived as long as I have, nothing much does."

"Does my presence here frighten you?"

John smirked. "No."

“Even though you must be aware that I am here to deliver punishment for you breaking several laws in your entry into the military?”

He didn’t answer. John’s response was obvious and he knew a man of Mycroft’s intellect was capable of figuring that out. John’s calm demeanour was certainly giving it away.

"I am not here to punish you."

"Oh?"

"I am here to offer you a position in another unit."

John lifted his eyebrows. "Offering makes it sound like I've got a choice here."

That got a smile out of the other man. "Indeed."

"What kind of unit is this?"

Mycroft raised his hand, palm up and suddenly there was a woman next to him – how could John not have noticed another person entering his room? – who placed a folder in his hand. Mycroft opened it and revealed several pictures, all of headless bodies – vampires, John would guess – some divested of their clothes. The focus of the pictures soon became clear: every single one of the six corpses sported a tattoo, above the buttocks or on a shoulder blade. A small, black spider.

"Vampires with this mark have been spotted all around the United Kingdom," Mycroft explained. "Their crimes have differed in severity and intention, yet this is a pattern that suggests a common element. An organisation, maybe even a leader pulling the strings. The British Government as well as the Council has allocated resources to deal with this matter."

"Which is where I come in."

Mycroft inclined his head. "You are a capable soldier, John Watson. It would be a shame to neuter you and lock you up. Although I do believe Estrode is furious. He only too happily agreed to include you in this special task force."

At this point, John didn’t wonder anymore why Mycroft knew about Estrode.

"It is dangerous, I take it?"

"Very."

John sighed slowly. This was better than anything he could have hoped for. A job, a purpose, to ensure the safety of Britain. The fact that he was given no choice irked him to a great extent, yet under the circumstances he would have to swallow his pride. He nodded, earning another tight-lipped grin from the older Holmes.

"Well, that concludes our meeting. Your belongings have already been collected. Official records will show that Osmond Sacker was killed in action. My colleagues will take you to our headquarters where you will meet the rest of the unit and acquire your orders first thing in the morning."

Without waiting for John's reaction, Mycroft rose and stepped through the door the men had held open for him.

At that moment, John's thoughts did not circle around the upcoming assignment or the spider symbol, or about whether or not his new superiors would allow him some animal blood or blood bags. No – for the first time in years his thoughts returned to a boy with messy curls and startling blue eyes and to the man he might have grown into.

John had been good at denying he was missing Sherlock and he cursed Mycroft for bringing the emotions back to the surface.

John shook his head. He would forget again. He had a job, a distraction, a purpose. There would be no time to spare thoughts to past mistakes.

~*~

John's absence left a hole in Sherlock's heart. He was glad he had created a room for John in his mind palace, so whenever he felt very lonely, he went there and relived fond memories of his childhood. He felt very embarrassed about asking Mycroft to help him trace John in America and although his brother used his contacts to find John, he couldn't get any information on him. John had literally disappeared and Sherlock was now even more convinced that he was a vampire and that his fellows had helped to wipe away any trace of him. That revelation made him incredibly sad and desperate. He wondered if the new job in the States had been the real reason for his departure or if John had stayed in the United Kingdom. John had been his only friend, the only one who understood and listened to him. Why did he have to leave?

Mrs Hudson saw Sherlock suffering quietly and gave him a dog for his fifteenth birthday and it seemed that the Irish Setter was able to fill the void John had left. Instead of constantly concocting new experiments, the young man dedicated most of his time to Redbeard until the day of his death ten years later.

Nothing that Sherlock stumbled across could hold his interest, let alone fill the hole again that had been reopened. Sherlock even closed himself off from the only friend he had made at university. He had finished boarding school with distinction, enabling him to study forensics and chemistry, something that had always fascinated him. His incredible skill of deduction, though, chased most people away, leaving only those who wanted to tease him or felt fascinated enough to try to befriend or date him.

Victor Trevor, a quiet and kind young man, was the only one who got close enough to be allowed in Sherlock's proximity. He helped Sherlock to cope with Redbeard's death but was pushed away when he realised that forming an attachment to Victor would only lead to more pain. His brother had always warned him that it wasn’t good to become too attached to people or animals.

"Caring is not an advantage," he had said, leaving a bitter taste in Sherlock's mouth when he thought of it.

Victor never acted on it, but he had been in love with Sherlock for quite a while, which the latter had figured out soon enough. Victor tried everything to get him back and made the huge mistake of seducing him with drugs to do so. As soon as he realised what cocaine and marijuana did to Sherlock's brain, both of them spiralled down abysmally.

The two young men had finished university by then, and at the age of twenty-six Sherlock had no idea what he wanted to do for a living as long as he had cocaine to keep him happy.

Victor Trevor died eventually of substance abuse and his death pulled Sherlock out of his horrible habit. He went to seek help with his brother who instantly put him into a drug rehabilitation clinic. He spent two years there until he was discharged. It was also his brother who saw his skill of deduction – after all, he was gifted too – and introduced him to Greg Lestrade, an officer at New Scotland Yard at that time, who worked for the Criminal Record Office.

First, Sherlock didn't feel very inclined to help him solve their problems with thefts and petty crimes but with time the cases became more interesting and as soon as Lestrade climbed up in rank, he was able to give Sherlock access to murders and crime scenes.

~*~

By 2008 Sherlock had made it a job for himself to solve cases and earn money with it. His foster-father Mr Hudson turned out to be a drug dealer, who fled to Florida to avoid arrest, dragging his wife with him to use her as leverage. When Sherlock heard of it, he flew to the States to help the police by ensuring the conviction and execution of Mrs Hudson's husband. The by then elder lady was very grateful for it and helped Sherlock to find a flat of his own in London. He settled down in 221B Baker Street with Mrs Hudson living close-by. She visited him often to check on him by cooking some meals or cleaning his flat, which got very messy when Sherlock had a case that took up all his concentration. Sometimes they had chats about the past and on very rare occasions they spoke about John and where he could be and what had happened to him. Sherlock tried to avoid those conversations, though. No matter how many years had passed, it still hurt that John had just left like that.

Two years later, some weird murders hit the headlines. Several people were found killed without any sign of violence. It caught Sherlock's attention immediately when Lestrade took him to the crime scene of a woman dressed all in pink on the top floor of a derelict house. He could hunt down her suitcase and the murderer who happened to be a mousy cab driver. By that time, Sherlock didn't know yet that all the victims had been vampires that had been killed by a new-developed toxin that caused a lot of fear among the vampire population. He also didn’t know that his brother's position in the government had brought him into contact with said population's Council.

Only when he analysed the pills, which had been used to kill the vampires, did he find out that they consisted of several toxic components he had never seen in this concoction. Knowing that his little brother was working the case, Mycroft got all this information and forwarded them to the Council.

Several weeks later, another gruesome killing spree shook the vampire community since the murderer left a trail of beheaded, naked vampires behind. They all sported the tattoo of a spider on a part of their body and there was no blood on the victims when Sherlock examined them. He finally connected the dots – the ones killed by the pills had looked the same at the time of their death. Blue veins standing out from underneath their pallid skin, ice-cold bodies and red-rimmed eyes. With everything he had read about vampires at the forefront of his mind and the image of the beheaded vampires burnt into his eyes, he went to confront his brother, who had always listened to his murder deductions with a cool façade, to ask if he knew anything about them.

~*~

Mycroft sensed he had to play his cards right when it came to his brother. It was remarkable that he had figured out the toxin and the implications on his own, and they needed Sherlock on the team if they were to uncover who was behind the killings.

Sherlock was just finishing his deductions and levelling a truly smug look at his brother when he realised that Mycroft did not seem as surprised as he probably would have expected.

Blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. "How much of this is news to you?"

"The information that you seem to have known about vampires for a long time now, brother," Mycroft admitted.

"So you knew that someone developed a poison that kills vampires?"

"Correct."

"What are you doing about it?"

"We are establishing a special operation unit that will investigate the killings and trace the perpetrators. Synthesising such a toxin requires funds and high-end equipment – I doubt uncovering the culprits shall be too difficult."

"Oh, beware of hubris, brother dear," Sherlock cautioned. "Whoever is doing this is clever – disguising his test run as murder-suicides took planning and an extraordinary mind. You would take care not to underestimate your opponent."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, thoroughly amused that his younger sibling of all people was warning him against being too confident. "I assume you have a suggestion?"

"Let me consult. I doubt any of your lackeys will even come close to my level of skill."

"What was it you said about hubris?"

"Oh, you know I'm the best," Sherlock snapped. "No one else could have pieced it together! You need me."

"Do I?" Mycroft quirked an eyebrow.

"Yes."

“I am not the only one responsible for the formation of this unit, Sherlock. I don't have that kind of power."

His brother snorted, identifying the lie for what it was. "Please. Do not take me for a fool."

"Compared to me, you are a fool. We've established that."

"I am still the only way you lot will be able to solve this before half the vampire population of Great Britain is starting to panic. And I doubt that would be a desirable outcome? After all, the humans might soon follow... if your reaction is not too late, and whoever is doing this intends to harm mortals as well, this might happen sooner than you think."

"Fine," Mycroft ground out through clenched teeth. "I shall make sure you are included."

"Perfect."

With that, Sherlock turned around and left, his billowing coat adding a sense of drama. Only when the door closed behind him did Mycroft allow his expression to give way to a satisfied smile. Sherlock might be a genius, yet Mycroft knew which buttons to push in order to make him act according to his wishes without even noticing whose idea it had really been in the first place.

~*~

John was nervous. The inconspicuous doors of the conference room where the first briefing was to be held drew closer and closer as he made his way down the hallway, following the officer who had collected him from his makeshift quarters. Shortly he would meet the rest of the team, composed of several human operatives, one consultant and one female vampire. John was still surprised that the Council had turned to the British Government for help but nowadays he thought he shouldn't think like he was still in the nineteenth century. Humans and vampires had after all learnt to co-exist.

His companion did not give him any reprieve before opening the doors and leading him into the room. It was long and rectangular with an oval-shaped table in the middle, two windows, one ventilation shaft and no other exits. People were standing together in groups, invested in conversations. Only a few looked up when they heard him come in and most did not even spare him a second glance. However, one pair of eyes that found John’s was familiar – Henricus Estrode was speaking with Mycroft Holmes at the other end of the room.

"Well, look what we have here," a female voice said from his right. The woman was leaning casually against the wall and John's instincts immediately identified her as the second vampire that the operative had mentioned. "And here I thought I'd be special."

"You still seem rather special to me," John replied smoothly. No reason to alienate the only real threat in this room.

"You have no idea. Irene Adler," she introduced herself, a pleased smile curling around her lipstick-red lips when John's eyes widened in recognition.

Irene Adler was a legend amongst vampires. Not as old as John himself, yet experienced nonetheless, she was famous for the services she provided to humans. Apparently being dominated was a common sexual preference, yet being dominated by a vampire who could kill you without exerting too much effort seemed to add to the thrill substantially.

"John Watson."

They shook hands and Adler leant in to whisper in his ear. "Someone has their eye on you, Mr Watson."

With a wink she turned away and John surveyed the room to see whom she was referring to. When he found the person, it hit John like a stake to the heart.

Piercing blue eyes were trained on him with the same intense focus that John remembered from many years ago. He had grown up into a breathtaking man, dark curls framing high cheekbones and a tall, slender body that stood in perfect contrast to John's compact form.

 _How old is he now?_ , John wondered briefly. _Thirty-four? Nearly as old as I was when I… He's grown so tall._

He swallowed hard in an attempt to soothe his nerves. He should have known. With Mycroft Holmes behind the formation of this unit it should not come as a surprise to see Sherlock here as well.

Still, John was not prepared for this. Even less so when Sherlock started to move closer, his long legs carrying him across the room quickly. He seemed to be keeping his expression forcefully blank.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" were the first words out of Sherlock that John heard in over fifteen years.

John did not need to ask how he knew. "Afghanistan."

Nothing in Sherlock's eyes betrayed even a hint of… of anything, really. They were cold, his face closed off. John could not even determine whether or not Sherlock had figured out he was a vampire – though knowing Sherlock, he surely had. So why no scathing remark? Or was he still angry with John for leaving him that he didn't know what to say? He wouldn't hold it against him. He had every right to be angry. What had happened to the young boy who couldn't stop talking or who would tell everyone in hearing distance about his deductions?

Before John could speak up, however, someone at the other end of the room called for silence and ordered them to take their seats. Sherlock immediately left John's side and sat down far away from him.

John's stomach sank. Whatever he had felt at meeting Sherlock again after so many years had dissipated before it could bloom into more.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In chapter three, John returns to a teenage Sherlock, just to leave again after getting into a compromising situation with the boy. Twenty years later, John is shot in the Afghan war and revealed as a vampire. Mycroft recruits him for a mission, where he meets Sherlock again, who is cold and distant to him.

Although John understood Sherlock’s distant behaviour, the feeling of rejection hit him harder than anticipated. Of course, he hadn’t expected hugs and kisses, he hadn’t even expected to meet Sherlock after so many years and here of all places, but at least something kind might have helped to bridge the gap that was between them. A gap that felt like it would be hard to mend.

Pushing these worrying thoughts aside, John sat down like all the others on an empty seat and faced the person who had asked for their attention. He introduced himself as AIC Carter Brown, who had been charged with their team of selected people to give them information about why they were here and what their mission was about.

John was only half listening. His sensitive senses had already taken in the various states of emotions filling the room, mostly anticipation, eagerness, wariness, and boredom which emanated strongly from Sherlock. Soon after naming all his ranks and a short description of his own history, Brown was joined by Estrode and Mycroft, the latter of whom had been watching from the side, clad impeccably in an ash grey, bespoke suit and wearing a poker face. He came to a halt next to Brown and let his gaze sweep over the assembled crowd, assessing them quietly before he lifted his hand and called someone forward.

It was Irene. She stood out from the crowd with her petite and pretty form but her demeanour was very confident as she came forward to join Mycroft.

"You all know why we have gathered here. The problem is called Moriarty, a man who strives to gain power by promising the vampire population victory over humankind. He thinks he can outsmart the government but he’s wrong. Information has leaked through; after all there’s always someone who can’t keep their mouth shut. The newspapers have shown us that the prize these leaks come with is death. We also know how difficult it is to kill a vampire but he seems to have invented a toxin that makes short shrift of those who betray him and that he also resorts to barbaric beheadings." Mycroft grimaced in apparent distaste at such crude measures.

"Miss Irene Adler had the 'pleasure' of meeting someone who had information on his followers who provided information about his plans. Said informant didn’t give a name but we all have heard rumours about something dark stirring in the cold north."

At that he lifted an eyebrow at his audience, daring them to negate his words. John had to admit that he hadn’t had a clue about anything "dark in the north" as he had been too busy killing off idiot vampires and humans in Afghanistan.

"Please, Miss Adler, why don’t you enlighten us how you came to receive this information?" Mycroft said with a charming smile.  
Irene looked sceptically at him but nodded and faced the crowd.

~*~

As Miss Adler began, Mycroft let his gaze wander, taking in the expressions of the selected operatives.

He had heard the story before, when Adler had come to him two weeks ago, telling him about one of her clients who had boasted about knowing someone who was in contact with someone called Moriarty alias "The Spider", he was feared amongst the criminal underbelly of Europe, with a reputation of allowing no room for betrayal. All vampires killed had gone a step too far, as Adler’s informant had explained. They had fed information to the wrong people, believing they would escape the consequences unscathed. Moriarty chose his followers himself and neither allowed boasting to others nor giving away what he planned.

Said informant’s name was Emily Somervell, a member of the royal family.

"I asked what Moriarty wants by building a network of vampires," Adler had explained, "and all she could do was guess. She fathoms Moriarty wants immortality, wants to lead the vampires and promises power and freedom in return."

"Neither of which interests you?" Mycroft had not been able to refrain from wondering.

The vampire had merely smiled, an explanation of knowing where the true power lied falling smoothly from her lips. Mycroft was wary of her, yet had no choice but to trust her information.

"Well, then it’s easy," one of the operatives spoke up when Adler was finished and taking questions. "We need to find your source and make her tell us all she knows."

Mycroft wished he could roll his eyes like Estrode was doing, or even groan just as his brother did a few seats away, yet such a childish display would be unbecoming of his position.

"Did it occur to you, Agent Lively, that the fact that we have yet to do that means the woman in question is currently on the run?" he asked instead, his tone enough to chastise the operative.

"Obviously Miss Somervell is apt at hiding – as a member of the royal family with an inclination to join an undead dominatrix in her bedroom, she had better," Sherlock interrupted, and Mycroft would swear until his death that in that moment he was grateful for his brother’s lack of respect to procedure and authority. "So finding her will not be an easy task. We need to start with her residence, gather clues and take it from there. With me on your team it won’t take too long to find her."

"You seem rather sure of yourself," Adler commented, an amused smile tugging at her lips.

"Do not play coy, Miss Adler," Sherlock cautioned, "it does not become you. You know exactly who I am."

"Indeed."

The vampire and Sherlock held each other’s gaze for a moment, and this time Mycroft had real difficulties suppressing an eye-roll. He had counted on their personalities clashing and seeing it play out as imagined was even more tedious.

Mycroft turned towards the AIC, intent to break the silence. "Carter, what are your thoughts?"

Carter Brown was the best superior officer MI5 had to offer, experienced, well-versed in fighting against vampires, and by normal people’s standards even clever. He was the only man from MI5 whose presence Mycroft was able to tolerate on a regular basis, hence the special unit became his supervise.

"Solid plan. While Mr Holmes takes a few men to her house, I will gather as much intelligence on Moriarty’s movements as possible. He has a lair and we will find it."

Sherlock raised a dubious eyebrow but thankfully remained silent.

"Then we are decided. Carter, I will entrust Miss Adler to your team, seeing as she is most familiar with London’s vampire culture. Mr Watson, you shall accompany my brother to Miss Somervell’s house along with two operatives and Miss Hooper," Mycroft ordered, pointing towards the young pathologist whose very special talent seemed to be blending into the background. Her cheeks coloured when Mycroft mentioned her but the nod she gave was firm.

Sherlock, meanwhile, glared at him. A lesser man might have been intimidated yet after years of suffering from his brother’s mood swings as a child, Mycroft had become thoroughly immune.

However, part of his mind had noted the cold demeanour Sherlock had displayed towards his wayward childhood friend, intrigued. Was his brother still holding a grudge against the army doctor for leaving? Had Sherlock in fact deduced John’s true nature before the soldier left, intending to protect Sherlock from finding out?

Mycroft would need to keep a closer eye on both his brother and the vampire. Solving crimes might have settled Sherlock somewhat, yet his impulsive tendencies still remained, and paired with a dark creature with an affinity for danger? That was a combination that courted trouble.

~*~

Now that their mission had been explained, the meeting was adjourned and people left the conference room to go back to their daily routine. John was the only one, who hovered at the door for a moment, his sharp eyes settled on Sherlock, who had walked over to the young Miss Hooper and started a conversation with her. He could hear every word of their hushed talking even from ten metres away, a bonus that came with his nature. Well, sometimes it wasn’t always so good to hear what others had to say. Instead of listening into their conversation he was lost in his own musing, wondering whether he should try another approach with the man or if he should just leave. It was such a relief to see Sherlock again after so many years, to see what he had become but his rejection had been clear and so John decided to call it a night and go back to the quarters they had given him. They were located in this very building and just one floor up.

John averted his gaze from the young man, knowing when he had lost, and left the room.

 _It’s not really_ you _to give up so easily_ , John reprimanded himself. _Well, I don’t want to force myself on him, do I? There will come a day when he gets past his anger. Hopefully._

His quarters were just a meagre bedsit with an ensuite. It only had one window and scarce furniture. When he had come here for the first time, he had been surprised how bleak everything looked and how much it reflected his mood. He walked over to the fridge and pulled out a blood bag (there were several inside, although he only drank blood once a week) but maybe Mycroft was trying to make up for the time they hadn’t been in contact. After all, he had also enjoyed John’s presence before he had gone to boarding school. Compared to Sherlock, though, he had never been very open with his feelings.

John sat down at his table and took a sip of the blood bag, realising with a start that it was his favourite blood type, AB.

 _Well, that must be coincidence_ , John thought. _He can’t possibly know what kind of blood I like, can he?_

Watching the setting sun and the display of orange and red behind his curtains, John absentmindedly sipped his drink. What would happen tomorrow? Would there be any chance for him to get Sherlock to talk to him or would they just tag along with the others and ignore each other?

John sighed audibly. He had not imagined seeing the man so soon but he had always assumed that their reunion would be friendlier.

~*~

The next morning, John was up before everyone else and he spent the time exploring the building until he stumbled upon a library. He almost went right past it, figuring it was closed at this early hour, yet a sliver of light caught his eye.

Intrigued, he sought an open door, discovering it around the corner, hidden from the main hallway. John advanced slowly, concentrating on his surroundings just in case whatever had lit the lamp wasn’t friendly.

Well, the scowl of which John found himself at the receiving end definitely held some animosity, yet John doubted that Sherlock’s anger went as far as trying to hurt him.

"Morning," John said, opting for a polite greeting in the hope it might lead to a longer conversation than the one they had held yesterday.

He watched Sherlock’s jaw clench. "Morning," he managed through gritted teeth, not moving a single muscle in the chair he was sitting in.

At a loss of how to address the elephant in the room, John’s eyes darted around for anything that might distract him. They landed on the book in Sherlock’s hand, long fingers gracefully cradling the ancient-looking material.

"What are you reading?" John asked in a light-hearted tone.

"This is a tome on northern London earldoms, given that we are about to travel to Knebworth House in Hertfordshire. I am researching." With that he averted his gaze, training his eyes once more on the pages in front of him.

"What, there’s a topic you’re not an expert in?" A teasing smile tugged at John’s mouth.

"Believe it or not, Captain Watson, I usually don’t preoccupy myself with the monarchy."

John grimaced – the use of the formal moniker stung. "It’s John. I thought… after all we’ve…"

Sherlock snapped the book shut and released a huff of air, the noise sharp in the silence of the library. "After all we’ve what, _John_?"

"Look, mate, I get that you’re angry –"

"I am not your mate, John. Not anymore," Sherlock ground out, cutting off John’s lame reply.

"I had to leave," John said, coming to a halt in front of Sherlock.

"Why?”

There it was. Of course Sherlock would zero in on the one question John couldn’t provide an answer for. At least not the truth.

He cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the lump that was constricting it all of a sudden.

"You would have found out what I am. I couldn’t risk it," he explained instead, hoping that Sherlock would believe the lie – or at least enough to let it go.  
Sherlock’s brow furrowed.

"You couldn’t have possibly believed I would betray your trust like that. I know you’re not the brightest, but you couldn’t have been that daft."

It felt eerily good being insulted again after so many years without Sherlock’s sharp tongue, even though it still hurt a little, especially when all John could do was shrug miserably. It was better to be insulted instead of explaining the truth and that the Vampire Council wouldn’t have sanctioned Sherlock knowing about John’s true nature.

"You always said I’m an idiot."

Sherlock met his eyes, his gaze calculating.

 _This is it_ , John thought, _he knows something is fishy._

To his utter relief, however, Sherlock chose to ignore whatever hunch he had.

"Well, you’re back now."

"I am."

Silence spread while John was waiting for Sherlock to react and at the same time looking for something to say that would not sound too pathetic.

"Want to start fresh?" was what he came up with, causing Sherlock to narrow his eyes in obvious confusion. "I mean, let the past be the past?"

"I’m not sure I can do that, John."

"Try? Christ, we’re going to have to work together on this case, Sherlock; we could at least be civil about it."

"Civil," Sherlock stated flatly.

"You know. Not get in a row about past mistakes, maybe be able to talk to each other like human beings."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, apparently doubting his ability to do so.

"Look, will you at least give it a try? If it doesn’t work, we can still ignore each other," John offered exasperated.

It took a long moment during which John had to force his eyes to remain on Sherlock’s face and not trail down his slender form, but eventually the detective nodded curtly.

"Good," John said, clenching his fist. "We should probably…" he trailed off, inclining his head towards the door.

"Yes. My brother will be quite annoyed if we’re late and hindering our departure."

Sherlock got up from his chair, picked up his long coat from a nearby chair and put it on, causing his obviously bespoke shirt to stretch across his chest. The younger man went past John, pausing at the door to look back at him.

"Coming?"

John didn’t have to be told twice.

~*~

In the end, it was Sherlock who drove a sleek black jeep up to Knebworth House. Molly sat next to him on the passenger seat while John sat a little crammed in the back with the two operatives Sherlock had chosen. The two men were both tall and broad-shouldered, and John could see from their posture alone that they were truly capable agents. Yet where one was blond, Sterling, John thought he was called – the other, Trevelyan, had dark hair.  

The day was bright and blue, making the country house, that was situated between fields, acres of garden and an old church, even grander than it already was with its turrets. Molly was gaping at the manor, expressing what John felt as he had also never been here before. Many of these kinds of houses were strewn across England but in all his life had he never bothered to visit one. This mansion wasn’t open to visitors anyway as it belonged to the royal family. A gravel path led around the house to a high, black iron gate that was guarded by a sentry who stood by a small house next to the entrance. Like the Queen’s Life Guards at Buckingham Palace he was wearing a royal guard uniform and also carrying a gun.

"Good day, sir," he addressed Sherlock through the open car window when the vehicle came to a halt in front of the looming gate. "I’m afraid I can’t grant you entrance. I wasn’t informed of any visitors today."

Sherlock snorted, clearly about to give a rude reply, so John beat him to it, leaning forward and stopping Sherlock’s comment with a hand on his shoulder.

"It was all rather spontaneous of us, but I assure you, we have got documentation."

John glanced at Sterling on his right who produced said papers and gracefully handed them over to the guard, even if he had to reach between the driver’s seat and the frame of the car.

"I will have to inform my supervisor," the guard told them and left, presumably to do as he had said.

Molly, apparently oblivious to the slightly awkward silence that had descended on the car, craned her neck to see more of the impressive house.

"We have to look at all of it, don’t we?" she asked. "I mean – we’ll have to be thorough, and, uh –"

"Please spare us your bumbling," Sherlock snubbed. "We are here to investigate, not to imitate annoying tourists."

Molly immediately drew in on herself and John’s hackles rose.

"Sherlock, you could at least try to be nice. We’ll all be working together."

"Doubtful. While the two Neanderthals next to you might be good bodyguards, their intellectual capacities will not advance this case; Miss Hooper is only here since she has access to a lab with halfway decent equipment," the detective delivered in a cold tone, ignoring the offended-looking faces of Sterling and Trevelyan in the rear-view mirror. "Being nice, John, is irrelevant to the successful solving of this case."

"Because you’ll do it all yourself, eh?" John enquired, raising an eyebrow.

"You shall see."

Now it was John’s turn to snort, a little torn between the warm feeling in his chest that being reunited with his long lost friend brought about, and the annoyance at said friend’s horrible manners.

Before either of them could argue more, the guard returned, his face as blank as before.

"You’re free to go on," he said with a curt nod, handing back the documents and then moving to open the gate.

John saluted at him through the window while Sherlock ignored the man and drove the car up to the grand house entrance. Up close, the manor looked even more magnificent, the old, leaded windows reflecting the sunshine in all rainbow colours.

"How are we going to proceed from here?" Molly asked as soon as she got out of the car. "I’m sure it’ll be a bit suspicious if we split and start snooping around. Do you really think they will believe our cover story of writing a book about portraits in the stately homes of Hertfordshire?"

As if on cue, the front door opened and a man in his mid-thirties stepped onto the porch. John estimated he might be the butler of the manor.

"Welcome to Knebworth House, lady and gentlemen," he greeted them with a polite but tight smile. "I’ve been informed that you’ve come to have a look at our portraits. Some of them are very old and need proper care, which is why I have been tasked with overseeing your work."

"No need," was Sherlock’s prompt reply. "Miss Hooper here is one of Britain’s leading curators and perfectly capable of overseeing our work."

With a placating smile, Molly hurriedly produced her documentation Mycroft had forged for them and handed it to the man, who squinted at the paper, his lips pursed.

"Be that as it may," he concluded sternly, "the Countess insists on internal oversight."

"Yet given the lady’s absence and Miss Hooper’s stellar qualifications, I am sure diverging from protocol will be acceptable," Sherlock immediately rebuked, completely calm and reasonable. He was playing a part, John noticed, and playing it rather well.

"I have not been in our Countess’ employ for over fifteen years because I tend to disregard regulations, Sir."

"Oh no, you have been because you kept quiet about her extracurricular activities with one Irene Adler and presumably other women before that, haven’t you?"

Just like that, the Sherlock John knew was back with full force and he could not help how it impressed him. The butler blanched, his eyes widening.

"That is –"

"Not a lie, do not even try to deny it," Sherlock interrupted the man’s desperate attempt to cover his employer’s transgressions. "You shall allow us to inspect the portraits and leave us in peace and none of this will ever reach the press. Do we have an understanding?"

It took a few seconds and for a moment John thought the man would argue, but eventually he nodded, welcoming them into the impressive mansion.

They stepped into a grand foyer which had a wooden staircase going up on the left and right. Instead of leading the small group upstairs, the butler entered a big dining room with seven huge portraits on three walls. The fourth was dominated by an enormous leaded window, adorned with royal insignia. The sunlight fell on a mahogany dining table that stretched from on side of the room to the other side, flanked by at least thirty chairs. The wooden floor creaked under their feet as they walked into the vast hall and John was awe-struck by the sight of so much affluence.

"These are our most important portraits," the butler explained, "showing members of the royal family from the last three decades."

"They are really impressive," Molly said, "but can you show us the portraits in the private chambers of your mistress? We’d rather start there with our… research."

The butler frowned and pursed his lips again in obvious discontent about the circumstances that allowed his visitors to enter his employer’s private rooms in her absence.

"I must inform you to not touch the portraits or any other private items in this household. Please bear in mind that many of them are antique family heirlooms and have to be handled with caution," he said in a stern tone of voice.

Before Sherlock could even take a breath for a snide remark, John stepped forward and replied, "I promise that we’ll take utter care of everything in this remarkable household. We won’t be long."

The butler looked at him for a long moment as if he was scrutinising John, and then he nodded and led them back to the foyer where he pointed up the staircase on the right-hand side of the entrance.

"The private chambers are this way. Go up the stairs and turn right into the long corridor," he explained, giving Sherlock a very critical once-over.

"Yes, that will be all," was the detective’s cool reply, which obviously grated the butler, yet finally made him take his leave through a narrow corridor next to the entrance door. John sighed, a bit of the tension in his shoulders draining as they heard the butler’s footsteps recede in the distance.

"What do we do now?" Molly asked, only to be silenced by Sherlock one moment later.

"Nothing. I doubt the Countess’s intellect was of any worth, so it shall be easy to find where she is currently hiding."

John sent the young woman a soothing glance, inspecting the entrance hall despite Sherlock’s order to the contrary. The two agents crossed their arms and settled against the wall next to the portal, apparently satisfied to allow Sherlock to take point.

John wandered off by going upstairs, curious about such lavish accommodation. The corridor the butler had mentioned led to many other chambers, including one balcony overseeing the dining room. Floral patterns dominated the tapestries everywhere. The rooms were too neat for John to actually gather much important information, though the lingering scents he was able to pick up told him a little about their elusive occupant.

"Well, let’s hear it then," John prompted Sherlock once they had all reconvened in the first room, and immediately Sherlock’s lips curled into a smile.

"What do you wish to hear about? Her secret smoking habit, her fondness of reality television shows, her growing feelings for Miss Adler or her four to five hiding places within the United Kingdom?"

John could only blink.

"Four to five – how the bloody hell were you able to figure that out?" Sterling asked from his position against the wall, uncrossing his arms with an intrigued expression.

"Oh, easy," Sherlock replied with a wave of his hand. "I found her wardrobe."

"Her wardrobe?" Trevelyan repeated, eyebrows raised.

"Yes, did I not just say that? Are you deaf in addition to daft?"

"Sherlock," John chided, albeit good-naturedly.

"I’ll spare you the details, if all you’re doing is repeat what I said back to me like mindless children discovering the use of their mirror neurons," he grumbled. "She has at least one safe house in Brighton, one in southwest Wales, one in Oxford and one in Edinburgh. Maybe one more in London, though the residual particles on her shoe soles in combination with the remaining clothes were inconclusive.”

"Brilliant," was all John managed to say, before he forcibly shook his head and stopped staring at his former friend who was brimming with pride over his deductions yet had chosen to abstain from recounting them in detail.

"Well, knowing about the houses won’t help us much unless you can tell us which one she chose."

The following snort was full of derision. "Of course I can tell. We’re going to Brighton."

A moment later, Sherlock was rushing out of the room and John and the others had no choice but to follow. Sterling grumbled something about informing his superior, but all of John’s attention was on the tall figure a few metres ahead of them, his coat highlighting his build and his chestnut-coloured locks reflecting the sunlight that entered the hallway through the windows.

 _Get a grip, mate_ , John told himself, but he already knew that would be impossible.

~*~

As quick as they had come, they headed back to the car again, leaving a bewildered butler behind. This time, John sat down in the passenger seat since Molly fit much better in the back. Sterling and Trevelyan certainly didn’t mind at all.

Soon they were back on the motorway and the landscape flew past their window. Until now John had been watching Sherlock surreptitiously, mulling over what he wanted to say.

"You haven’t changed since I left. Still a show-off and even more brilliant in your deductions," he said with a smile, although his thoughts were sad.

_The only thing that seems to be missing is your gentleness. You’ve become quite snooty, really and vituperative._

"So what told you where we should go?"

There was a moment of hesitation and John feared Sherlock would not want to divulge the information, but the detective’s lips twitched then, his eyes sparkling a bit, and John knew he had him.

"Most of her clothes were gone, also her shoes, except a few sturdier pairs. Those that remained had a mixture of residual particles on the soles – no one ever scrubs them sufficiently. Given she left those shoes behind, I assume she did not rush off to Scotland or Wales. Also, there was a picture on one of her shelves; herself next to an older man, an uncle, possibly, only the paleness of his skin doesn’t match the tan the woman is sporting. Vampire, probably. The picture was taken in front of a formation of rocks found on the outskirts of Brighton. The city matched the missing clothes and shoes. Obvious, really." Sherlock grinned, briefly glancing at John before looking out of the window again.

"That was," John muttered, "amazing. Bloody amazing."

Sherlock’s eyes found his again and the pleasure displayed in them upon hearing the praise would have taken John’s breath away if he had had the need to breathe.

"Well. I’ve become better in the last few years. Had a lot of practice."

"You were always amazing, Sherlock," John blurted before his brain caught up with his mouth.

Sherlock’s cheeks coloured slightly, but other than that he did not acknowledge the comment. For the better, probably, John mused. They still had a way to go with the case so they couldn’t afford making it awkward too early on.

John settled against the car door, taking in the landscape rushing past them outside and trying to stifle the feelings curling up in his chest.

It was going to be a long drive to Brighton.

~*~ 

It took them more than ninety minutes to reach one of the most popular towns at the south coast of Britain, also known as London-by-Sea which reflected its popularity with Londoners.

John hid his surprise that Sherlock very confidently knew where to go, probably thinking of the photograph with the rock formations. As if on cue, said cliffs came into view in the vicinity of the city, their stark white colour reflecting the warm sunlight.

Sherlock guided the car from the main road onto a narrower street that wound itself along Brighton’s outskirts. Lush greenery surrounded them here, waving briskly in the breeze of the sea. The smell of salt entered the car and John closed his eyes, his olfactory senses enhancing the experience even more.

"I haven’t been to the sea for ages, " he murmured with a small smile on his lips. "I can taste the salt in my skin."

"If you care for a swim, I’m certain I can handle Miss Somervell on my own," Sherlock suggested, his voice tinged with sarcasm.

"Don’t be daft, Sherlock – her uncle is probably going to be there and _he’s_ a vampire."

"You say that as if you doubt I could defend myself."

"Well, you’re not exactly a mountain of muscle and we are ten times stronger than the average human," John shot back. He had seen those of his kind crush skulls with their bare hands – there was no way he would leave Sherlock alone with one of them who was sure to meet them with hostility.

"Oh, John, this would not be the first time I went up against one of you and walked away victorious," Sherlock sneered, by all appearances confident in his abilities, yet John noticed how his knuckles had whitened because he was gripping the steering wheel rather firmly.

"Probably not unharmed, though," he commented, not missing how Sherlock swallowed. "Good thing I’m not in the mood for a swim, then. Never underestimate older vampires."

It was obvious John was not only hinting at Miss Somervell’s uncle but also himself. From experience he knew that any vampire over three hundred years was lethal to humans. Including himself.

Before the detective could reply, Richard Sterling interrupted their banter.

"Does that mean you two are finished with your little domestic?"

Next to the agent, Molly giggled. John decided to bite his tongue and not allow himself to be riled up. As if on cue, a magnificent Elizabethan manor house came into view.

The grey building sat surrounded by soft hills, trees and hedges in the countryside, overlooking the sea. A small, asphalted path split off the main road, marked by a wooden sign indicating it was leading towards "Glenda Manor".

"Looks very impressive," Molly said. "What is it with these rich people always needing to show off their status?"

"You’re in the UK, Molly. What did you expect? Human society is still made of a class system," John said, his mouth a thin line. "This house looks like it has been handed down for generations."

Instead of being heavily guarded, this house was apparently open to the public because several tourists were mingling about when they entered the car park in front of the manor. Another sign alerted them that the grounds were free of charge.

Sherlock parked the car and then they followed the small crowd of people around the house. As it turned out they were headed towards the Manor’s gardens. They passed an imposing coach house and stable block to the south and two menacing-looking wyverns flanking the fenced entrance to the yard which was guarded by two armed men dressed in a black and white uniform.

"That seems to be our place to enter," John said.

"They don’t look as though they’d welcome us," Molly remarked, eyeing the two men warily.

Out of the corner of his eyes John saw Sherlock moving, presumably about to approach the guards, yet before he could so much as step forward, Sterling and Trevelyan had already called out to the men, drawing their attention.

John, Sherlock and Molly remained behind while the two agents took over, Sterling producing a piece of paper from the inside of his jacket. John strained his ears – which was not particularly difficult, seeing as his targets were only about ten metres away – and listened to Sterling explaining the story behind their warrant. The document was fake, of course, hurriedly crafted in the back of the car. Their swiftness had made John wonder if Sterling and Trevelyan were in a habit of forging official government papers.

Not that he was complaining. Quite the contrary, in fact, given how the scheme worked perfectly and only a few minutes later, the five of them entered Glenda Manor. John was appalled at how easy it was to enter a house where a member of the royal family resided but in their case he was glad they could fool the guards.

"We should split up," Sherlock suggested as they reached the entrance hall where three staircases led into different parts of the manor. "John and I will go left, you take the right."

"Do you think that’s such a good idea, mate?" Trevelyan argued, his eyes mapping the room. "I’ve got a bad feeling about this."

"Your delicate sensibilities will cost us time," Sherlock pointed out. "We will work much faster in two groups. You’re highly trained agents; I doubt there is much course for worry."

"Sherlock’s right," John said, slipping into the conversation. "It’s already afternoon and this place is large. It’ll take some time to cover it all. We don’t want our only lead to get away."

"Well, then Miss Hooper should wait outside," Sterling suggested. "Just in case the woman slips out before we find her."

"Yes, sure," Molly agreed readily. To John it seemed as though she was quite glad about her task. "I can inform you as soon as I see anything."

"Good. Let’s start." Sherlock’s tone was brisk and serious. Without another word he started off to the left, not even checking if John was following him. Which he did, of course.

"Don’t have another domestic," Trevelyan hissed at their departing backs.

John just rolled his eyes and disappeared with Sherlock behind a set of double doors at the end of the staircase. It was eerily quiet in the corridor they entered beyond. John’s sensitive hearing only picked up on the summer birds singing outside and some distant voices of the tourists in the gardens. There were no footsteps or voices from the residents of the house to be heard. Could it possibly be that vampires apart from Miss Somervell’s uncle were living here?

Suddenly John stopped and closed his eyes to empower his other senses. His brows creased in concentration as he drowned out the birds and unnecessary voices. With his sight blocked out, Sherlock’s enticing smell was nearly too much for John but he pushed past his urge to scent his neck and was able to not only make out Sherlock’s rather loud respiration but also a very subtle breathing beyond one of the doors on their right-hand side. He snapped his eyes open, met Sherlock’s curious stare and pointed to the second door on their right.

"There’s a human behind that door. She must be the only one here," he whispered, approaching said door as quietly as only vampires could do.

John exchanged another look with Sherlock and, after his nod, turned the handle and slipped inside, poised for an attack. It never came.

As his senses had told him there was only one human in the room – a woman he recognised from photos as Emily Somervell. Her thick, auburn hair fell in soft waves down her back, curling on her shoulders. John would have found it dubious that a woman like her would require the services of a dominatrix, yet since she preferred the company of female vampires, he could see that finding sexual partners who did not require financial compensation might prove difficult. Few vampires advertised their otherness away from specific fetish clubs. Which of course were unseemly for a countess to be spotted at.

"These are private chambers!" the woman immediately complained. "You have no right to be here – explain yourselves!"

"We are here to question you in the context of several murders," John obeyed hurriedly, fearing that Sherlock might lead with an insulting deduction and ruin every chance of making the lady cooperate.

"Murders?" she gasped, rising from her chair. "I don’t know what you are talking about. Are you with the police?"

It was Sherlock who expanded on John’s brief explanation. The mere mention of Irene Adler had the countess blushing furiously, making John’s eyebrows arch and his imagination supply rather vivid scenarios. He shook his head, refocusing his attention on his surroundings. Something was off – the woman was still the only human in the vicinity, but his nose told John there was more to the situation than on first sight.

"Honestly, I cannot comprehend how foolish a person could be to tell their dominatrix about ties to a highly dangerous criminal network," Sherlock concluded loftily, looking as though the lady’s stupidity were a personal affront to him. "If we opened your skull, would we find any brain matter or simply hot air?"

John was already opening his mouth when a side door opened with a bang. Only John’s enhanced vision enabled him to actually glimpse the male figure rushing up to Sherlock, and only his vampiric reflexes allowed him to step into the person’s path. The momentum of their collision threw them both to the ground and John was able to gather he was dealing with a fellow male vampire before a fist connected with his jaw.

The ensuing tussle was over within mere seconds, too fast for a human eye to comprehend, yet in the end both of them landed on their feet, staring at each other.

"No one talks to my niece like that!" the man then spat in Sherlock’s direction, his face twisted into a scowl.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I highly doubt you have only been a vampire for such a brief amount of time as to actually be this woman’s uncle."

John could not help the chuckle that escaped him. Of course Sherlock would have figured it out in a heartbeat. The other two remaining occupants in the room looked rather baffled, though.

Emily, who was hiding behind her "uncle", stared at all of them, not sure what to do. She looked frightened like a little mouse after John had mentioned the murders. The tall, dark-haired vampire, who looked as if he were in his fifties and was wearing very expensive clothes, adjusted his ruffled hair and brushed down his front after the tussle he had had with John. He glowered at Sherlock, clearly sensing the negative waves he was giving off.

"You barge in here, speak of murders and don’t introduce yourselves properly. Who do you think you are? I can have you thrown out of here in a mere second," he spoke in a threatening voice.

John didn’t doubt his words, expecting that they wouldn’t be treated with kid gloves. From his tussle he knew how strong this vampire was. He was matching John in strength which meant that he was at least three hundred years old. He wondered how old the other vampires were that resided in the house. If they were called to give a helping hand in their current situation, then John and Sherlock wouldn’t stand a chance. There was only one way to keep the peace.

"Please excuse my companion. He hasn’t been graced with good manners," he said, lifting an eyebrow at Sherlock. "We’re sorry for the unexpected visit but we have a good reason. We are good acquaintances of Irene Adler and she has been very much worried about you, too, after several vampires have been killed rather cruelly in London. I guess that was the reason why you went into hiding, Countess."

John smiled apologetically at Emily, who stepped cautiously around the man and nodded slowly. The vampire put a possessive hand around her waist and bent his head down to her.

"You don’t have to say anything, my dear. They could be lying," he said. "Prove that you are Irene’s friends," he demanded.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John was sure he would rebuff their question, but instead Sherlock rushed through an explanation, saying, "Irene and my colleague, John Watson, are both vampires and thus dwell in similar circles. Miss Adler told us to mention a townhouse in Swansea during Easter in case anyone doubted our acquaintance."

Next to him, John nodded, grateful to Irene for providing a few details for just such a situation.

The Countess had blushed upon Sherlock’s words, a smile tugging at her lips as she stepped out from the other man’s embrace. The two of them exchanged a glance, though whatever non-verbal communication had passed between them seemed to have ended in a positive manner for Emily actually spoke to them.

"I believe you," she said, "but rest assured that my uncle is not the only vampire on the premises." Her voice was shaking slightly, projecting insecurity which was at odds with the content of her words. "Now," she added, taking a deep breath, "what do you want to know?"

"We would like to know where you got all the information about Moriarty," John said conversationally. "You’ve been boasting about the information that was given to you, so you must have been intrigued enough to share it with Irene even though you aren’t a vampire and not directly involved in the scheming."

Emily looked taken aback by his words and chewed nervously on her lower lip.

"I don’t know if you are aware of how _much_ in danger you are," John continued. "All these vampires that have been killed were part of Moriarty’s circle but the plans he has for humankind and vampires were obviously supposed to stay secret. Everyone that blabbed was killed. We are here to get more information and to eventually catch Moriarty. So who talked to you?"

Now Emily had paled visibly and she looked at her companion who was frowning at them.

"It was an acquaintance of ours," she said in a tinny voice. "I don’t want him to get into trouble."

"If you don’t tell us then you both will get into trouble," John pointed out. "The quicker we get behind all this, the quicker we can prevent madness to spread out on this island."

John noted that Emily’s hands were trembling. At least she finally understood in full how much danger her actions had brought upon her. Now they could only hope she would see reason and give them what they wanted to know.

The countess exchanged a lingering look with her uncle, apparently reaching a decision as she visibly braced herself, squaring her shoulders and taking a deep breath.

"I met him at a party five weeks ago, hosted by a member of the royal family. He was a young man, the guest of Patricia Huntingdon, daughter of the Earl of Huntingdon. I noticed him immediately because of his…" She hesitated briefly, as if looking for the right words. "His colourful attire. Barely proper anymore. I initiated a conversation, but the details are a bit blurry…"

"Why?" John enquired, though Sherlock’s icy chuckle heralded the answer.

"Did the man share drugs with you?" Sherlock asked, his voice as hard as stone.

Emily nodded. "Miss Huntingdon participated as well. We were talking, about vampires, how I knew, and at some point he told me about Moriarty. I haven’t seen him since, or Patricia Huntingdon for that matter."

John glanced at Sherlock, whose eyes were narrowed and focussed on the countess. He nodded, as if to confirm her sincerity.

"Give us his name. We’ll be able to track him down."

"Sean MacCafferty. He said he is from Belfast, though he seemed to be staying in England."

"And he didn’t tell you where in England he was staying?" John enquired.

"No, he didn’t. He only said he loves the coast and from others I heard he likes to dwell in high-end Vampire clubs where he picks up women for his pleasure. I don’t know where he is now but I bet you could find him in one of those clubs that cater to the rich."

John stifled his sigh. As far as he knew there were several ~~of~~ so-called Vampire fetish clubs in England but not all of them were high-end.

"Do you know what kind of drug he gave you?" he asked, shaking his head at the foolishness of some people who thought they needed drugs to get a certain kick in their life.

Emily had turned rather pale now and sat down on one of the sofas in the room.

"I’m not sure if I caught the name right but it sounded like Meow Meow," she replied timidly. “It didn’t have that much of an effect on me, or Miss Huntingdon. But MacCafferty said it made our blood taste better.”

John looked at Sherlock. He had no clue about the drugs that were in circulation but maybe Sherlock had come across some during his life. He just hoped that he had never taken to any of them.

He watched as Sherlock’s lips thinned. Other than that the man gave no visible reaction, so John decided to wrap up the interrogation.

"Thank you for your help, Countess. If you remember anything else, please let us know immediately."

Emily nodded, though her eyes had the faraway look of someone whose thoughts had strayed. John exchanged the necessary contact information with the woman and her uncle, yet once he had finished, Sherlock had already left the room.

Heaving a sigh, John followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AIC = agent in charge 
> 
> Knebworth House does really exist. It’s a country house built in the 15th century in Hertfortshire, England and a Grade II listed building (= particularly important building of more than special interest). Numerous films have been shot there too, including Jane Eyre (1997), Harry Potter 4 and The King’s Speech. Unlike in the story, the house is open to visitors and Iriya had been there and felt inspired. :D
> 
> Glenda Manor is fictional, but the Elizabethan Manor House "Glynde Place" in East Sussex was the inspiraton for it. It is close to Brighton and just like Knebworth House, its house and gardens are open to the public.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In chapter four, Irene revealed information about Moriarty which she got from one of her clients – Emily Somervell, member of the royal family. Sherlock and John somewhat reconciled and went on a mission to find her to get more information. She told them she heard about Moriarty from a vampire called MacCafferty who could be found in high-end Vampire clubs.

Two days later, John was beginning to fear for the lives of his colleagues, given how little success they had had so far with locating Sean MacCafferty. Sherlock, apparently, was interpreting it as a shortcoming of both himself and the rest of their team, and had begun snapping at everyone in his vicinity.

"I have news?" John turned towards the door of their office at MI5 headquarters where Molly Hooper was fidgeting on the threshold.

"Either choose a different inflection or leave me alone," Sherlock snarled viciously. He had spent the past hour staring at their wall, littered with intel, maps of cities with highlighted locations of fetish clubs, scraps of information that Sherlock's homeless network had been able to gather, but other than that there was no sign of their suspect.

"Don't mind him," John said, waving Molly into the room. Agents Sterling and Trevelyan had fled the room soon after arriving this morning, chased off by Sherlock's temper. "You found something on Meow Meow?"

By now, John even managed to say the word without having to supress a chuckle at the funny nickname.

Molly nodded. "My contact at Cambridge came through. He says it's the street name for M-Cat, a synthetic stimulant drug, similar to the amphetamine and cathinone classes. Apparently it's been developed primarily for vampires because of the stimulating effect."

"How stimulating?" John asked.

Molly swallowed. "It allegedly makes them feel alive because…"

"Spit it out!" Sherlock butted in, though John ignored him.

Molly reddened, but she continued. "It makes the heart beat. Briefly. That's what Dan said, uh, my contact. He said the quick addicting effect is due to the incredible high, and most who try it once never stop despite the bad side effect."

"Which is?" John prompted before Sherlock could be any ruder.

"An intense crash with prolonged sleep cycles. Dan said they could take up to twelve hours."

"Which makes them vulnerable to attacks," Sherlock concluded. "Which in turn is the reason it's common in tightly-knit communities like those of these clubs – safe environment for the comedown."

John surveyed the wall, eyes gliding across the pictures as he processed the new information. If MacCafferty was as addicted as the Countess made it sound, they needed to gain access to one of these communities and look for him as insiders.

"We need to go undercover," he declared, gazing expectantly at the detective. For the first time since reaching MI5, Sherlock's lips curled upwards.

"Obvious."

"Well, you sound quite smug about it. Have you ever gone undercover before?" John asked, raising an eyebrow.

In the past, he had changed his appearance so many times, usually every fifteen to twenty years when he had to pretend that he was aging. After all, he didn't want to cause suspicion among his patients that he was still looking the same when he started a new practice or a new job in a different surgery in another town. He was familiar with make-up and wearing clothes that suited someone in his late forties or fifties but he had never really gone undercover for a mission, especially not in a posh club of the wealthy. He had no idea what kind of attire he required for such an establishment.

Sherlock inclined his head. "Sometimes, when a case required it. Come on."

With that, the detective strode from the room. John heaved a sigh, yet followed.

 

~*~

They decided to start looking for disguising clothes in John's quarters which were in the same building and although John wasn't very keen on showing Sherlock his meagre bedsit, he gave in and led the way.

"Don't expect much. They gave me something they thought would be only temporary and so far I haven't had the time to look for my own flat," he explained, opening a grey door that blended in with the bland colour of a long corridor.

Sherlock didn't give any indication that he would care for it and followed John into his bedroom that also served as a living room. His eyes scanned the room quickly until he spotted the small cupboard next to the window. John's mouth became a thin line when he closed the door and let his colleague wander through the room. He knew that he wanted to have his own space as soon as possible. He had quite some savings from all his years of working as a doctor, and was also getting a small army pension, so whoever had thought that vampires loved grey and boring places to live at was an idiot.

"Like I thought – nothing suitable for fetish clubs," Sherlock eventually said after inspecting the meagre contents of John's wardrobe.

John quirked an eyebrow. "I could have told you that."

"And hidden the fact that you still live in the quarters my brother organised for you?" Sherlock shot back, but his voice was tinged with mirth. He glanced around once more, then shook his head. "You will be moving as soon as we are back from this mission."

"Really?" John said, blinking in surprise. "And where will I be moving to?"

"My flat, of course," Sherlock said with an air of finality as if this had all been a foregone conclusion and John was just slow with catching up. John just crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.

"And with all your behaviour towards me, you really believe that I’ll be eager to move in with you?" John said, hinting at Sherlock's reaction when they met after all those years and his bossy behaviour during their mission to find Emily Somervell. "You’ve become an even bigger twat than you were as a child. I thought you didn't like me and now you expect me to move in with you. Has it ever occurred to you that I might not want to because I know how you still feel about me leaving you back then? What changed your mind?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment, almost as if mulling over his answer. For a man who always spoke his mind and paid so little heed to how his words affected those around him, the pause was almost too considered in John's eyes. "What changed is that you're back. Whatever petty reason you had for leaving has to be moot now."

John's other eyebrow rose now and contemplated Sherlock's words.

 _It_ has _to be?_ , he thought in disbelief.

It came as a surprise to him that Sherlock had apparently pushed his resenting feelings aside for whatever reasons. Could it really be because he had realised how much it mattered to him that John was back? A sly smile spread on his lips.

"Missed me?" he teased, lowering his chin and looking at the young man from beneath his eyelashes.

The reaction he received was immediate – Sherlock blinked, obviously surprised by his coyness. He swallowed, yet did not break eye contact.

"Maybe," he conceded, and it was more of an admission than John had ever dared hope for. It took a second for both of them to notice they were both still looking at each other and it was Sherlock who tore his gaze away first. John was sure that if his heart were still able to beat, it would have broken his ribcage.

"Let's find you some appropriate clothes," Sherlock said, flinging the wardrobe doors shut before striding out of the room.

Behind his back, John smiled at him. He felt like a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders. It hadn't felt right to feel so alien in Sherlock's company after so many years of being apart. During Sherlock's childhood they had become so close and even though his conflicting feelings had eventually forced him to leave the boy, he hoped they could go back to their easy company, now that Sherlock had grown up.

"Lead the way," he said, following the man out of his dreadful quarters.

 

They left the grey, uninviting building and Sherlock hailed them a cab with an ease John felt a bit envy of. The sky was overcast, so John didn't have to worry about sunshine prickling his skin.

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock told the driver before settling on the back seat.

The man nodded and merged with the traffic with a speed the London cabs were notorious for.

"Baker Street? Really? You can afford a flat in Marylebone? A one-bedroom flat must be more than two thousand quid a month," John said in awe, wondering what kind of profession Sherlock was pursuing.

If he really worked with MI6, then it would explain a lot but if he didn't, how did he manage?

"Not for me," Sherlock said. "Mrs Hudson, the landlady, is giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour." At John's questioning gaze, he continued. "A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"You stopped her husband being executed?"

"Oh no," Sherlock said with a smirk. "I ensured it."

John couldn't help the bark of laughter that escaped him. "Must be quite the story."

"It was a rather dull bit of drug smuggling. Mrs Hudson had no idea."

However, something about the glint in Sherlock's eyes made John think that was just the official story. Before he got a chance to ask further, the cab came to a stop at their destination. It looked like any other ordinary Georgian terraced London house with a black door and a brass knocker. There was also a sandwich bar on its right with a red sunshade. John looked it over quickly, before following Sherlock up a staircase into a rather untidy flat.

"I see you haven't learnt how to clean up in the past few years," John remarked, but he made sure to add a smile.

"Cleaning's boring," Sherlock declared, sounding as petulant as he did when he was younger. John's chest ached at the memory. He followed Sherlock upstairs to a second bedroom that had apparently been used as storage and would have to be tidied up for John to move in. It held a large wardrobe bursting with clothes. Sherlock rummaged through them for a moment and eventually produced something with a grin.

"This should do."

John could only stare at the items in Sherlock's hand.

"That is ghastly, Sherlock. I don't think they wear morning suits and top hats in a posh Vampire club. Posh doesn't mean 'old-fashioned' and that would look as if I'm going to a wedding."

John was so glad that fashion had changed drastically over the last six decades. Now he could wear comfortable clothes again like he did before he became a vampire. He turned back to the wardrobe, dug through the incredible amount of clothes – did Sherlock only keep it for dressing up? – and put a pair of black leather trousers, a white shirt and a leather jacket on the unused bed.

"How about that? Could fit me." He gave Sherlock an expectant look with a small twinkle in his eyes.

"Maybe you should check?" Sherlock suggested, his face unreadable.

He had a point, seeing as these were Sherlock's clothes, so John shot the other man a pointed look to make Sherlock give him some privacy, which he did with an eye-roll before facing the wall. Presumably social conventions such as modesty were too trivial for the likes of him, John thought with a chuckle. The trousers fit, albeit a little tight and long. He rolled up the seams a little bit. The white shirt was better, though the fabric spanned slightly across his chest. At least the jacket was comfortable.

"Well?" he asked, signalling for Sherlock to turn around.

On anyone who was no vampire, the reaction would have been lost, yet John noticed the faintest blush darkening Sherlock's cheeks.

_Interesting._

He didn't give away that he had seen it to avoid making Sherlock feel caught in the act. He probably didn't even realise it.

"Do you approve?" he tried again to get the young man's attention and watched himself critically in the body-length mirror hanging on the wall.

He felt a little like being naked from the waist down as he had taken off his underwear to fit inside the leather trousers. They were really snug, maybe a little too revealing – the word "package" came to mind – but after all they were going to the club to attract attention and the way he looked now would definitely accomplish that.

John pulled up the zip of the jacket and nodded at his reflection while combing his fringe back. He looked like someone who loved riding a motorbike. Striking, rough and adventurous.

"Let's find an outfit for you, then," he said, motioning to the wardrobe. Sherlock cleared his throat and finally broke his stupor. He seemed to be looking for something, judging by the focussed movements of his hands as they went through the array of clothing.

John found the wiggling of Sherlock's backside quite enticing but he shook his head to clear himself of those very distracting thoughts and stepped beside him.

"How about this?" John asked, taking out a white T-shirt, blue jeans and a dark woollen jacket.

John thought that it would make Sherlock seem much younger and maybe even more interesting for the vampires in the club which probably liked to seek out young and innocent company who looked like they couldn't harm a fly and would be easy to persuade for anything.

"Let's see," Sherlock said, accepting the items from John. Their fingers did not touch, but John's throat tightened anyway.

"Brilliant. I'll leave you to it, then."

Sherlock nodded and John bade a quick escape. Their first priority was finding MacCafferty, and if John stayed in the room with the other man, his distracting thoughts would only grow in intensity.

Once downstairs he took a moment to lean his forehead against the nearest wall and released the groan that had been building up in his throat. To think he was about to spend his foreseeable nights parading Sherlock around in fetish clubs… John swallowed. He already felt his rather cold blood getting hotter.

 

~*~

Sherlock felt eyes on him as he moved through the crowd. He should be used to it by now, seeing as it was by no means the first time this had happened, and yet the hungry, almost blazing gazes of the other vampires at the clubs were still decidedly unsettling. This was the forth establishment they had visited, the previous three yielding no results as to their mark's whereabouts.

What they did yield were lessons in self-control. Sherlock had hoped he would grow accustomed to the sight of John Watson in tight leather and fabric, but to no avail. The image had yet to lose its effect on Sherlock's mind, which was circling back to bulge in the other man's trousers, the broad, strong lines of his shoulders or the firmness of his arms.

Sherlock paused before reaching the bar, taking a deep breath that still failed to calm either his body or his mind.

John, who had only been to posh clubs during the Victorian times where it was normal to spend his free time to engage with other gentleman or vampires, had felt a little rusty to Sherlock when he entered the first establishment. Obviously etiquette and interior design had changed drastically, portraying the twenty-first century in every aspect. All of the recent clubs were located in the rich boroughs of London, usually having their entrance in a small, easily overlooked alley. There were no flashing lights that indicated the existence of a vampire club. You had to know where they were. Luckily Sherlock had found them through his contacts as John wouldn't have known where to start. He never frequented clubs of this nature, or so he had explained.

By now, Sherlock could tell that John felt quite confident when he entered one of them, after all he was surrounded by his kind and he knew how to handle them. Vampires were cautious creatures, even after all these centuries and although humans had a vague idea that they really existed. They used smell and observation to ascertain if someone was to be trusted. So as soon as he and Sherlock had entered, all eyes of the room, from whatever table or crook in the last corner of the club, had fallen on them for the entrance was visible from every spot of the establishment. Sherlock knew enough about vampires that he was sure that John had looked casually through the room and assessed how many people were around – twenty-six vampires and eighteen humans (eleven women and seven men) – and how many of them focused on whom of them.

As usual and quite tedious for Sherlock all eyes locked on him, which was no surprise. So far his appearance had worked quite well as a distraction, so that John had the chance to determine who of the vampires was fitting the description Miss Somervell had given. Sherlock's deduction skills were to his dismay limited when it came to the ability of smell but he had spotted that some of the humans had bloodstains on their wrists and necks. A quick glance to John made him wonder how long it had been when he had last feasted on a human. He looked up when John suddenly sat next to him at the bar, looking paler than usual.

"Would you like a drink?" John asked, leaning closer and resting a hand on Sherlock's arm.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock whispered, taking in John's completely dilated pupils.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just a bit… the smell of blood is stronger here."

Oh, of course – even Sherlock was able to pick out the prominence of that particular fragrance in the crowded room. Judging by the in part animalistic behaviour of some of the vampires present, it posed a considerable challenge to everyone's self-restraint. How John was feeling was hard to imagine. Sherlock hadn't asked him yet about his habits, yet he knew for a fact that the blood MI5 supplied its vampires with was by no means fresh. Sherlock would have loved nothing more than to satisfy his curiosity, but felt reluctant to do so after all these years of separation. John and he needed to get reacquainted again, especially in light of the other man's vampiric nature.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked, seeking out John's gaze.

The other man's answering nod was nothing but a twitch of the head and Sherlock felt worry spread through his chest. He shifted closer and covered John's hand that was still on his arm with his own. As their eyes met, Sherlock almost jerked back at the naked hunger he saw but thankfully caught himself at the last moment.

"Focus on me, John. You are stronger than your urges, I know you are."

John squeezed his eyes shut and his entire body grew rigid as the man tried to obey. His grip on Sherlock's arm tightened almost painfully, yet after seemingly endless seconds John released him with a low sigh – a habit from his human days that sometimes resurfaced, centuries later. Sherlock watched in fascination as the vampire in front of him morphed back into John Watson.

"I'm sorry," John murmured. "Thank you for your confidence. This club seems to allow vampires to bring their donors with them and feed on them in here. It's been quite a long while since I did that. I've stuck to bagged blood since the seventies…" His voice trailed off, leaving it to Sherlock to guess what could have been his reasons. "There's a man on the right in the corner with a very young woman. Maybe in her late teens. He could be the one we're looking for and if not perhaps he can tell us if he knows MacCafferty," John added, gently rubbing over the spot on Sherlock's arm where he squeezed too hard before dropping his hand in his lap.

Sherlock pushed down the curiosity urging him to ask about John's motifs, yet the detective inside of him overrode the impulse. They were here to pursue a lead, after all – not to share a drink and exchange life stories.

Sherlock's gaze found the person John had pointed out immediately, cataloguing everything he could in the blink of an eye. Objectively speaking, the man was handsome, with sharp cheekbones, dark hair, and a slender build which the dark colour of his wardrobe only accentuated. Intricate accessories gave him an air of eccentricity, and his movements were energetic, almost as if he was riding a high.

John nodded curtly, his back straightening in preparation. He had certainly been a very capable soldier, Sherlock mused. The mental image of John Watson in a uniform, however, was the last thing he needed right now, so he shook his head. With a deep intake of breath that failed to steady his increasing pulse, Sherlock stepped closer. The move placed him inside John's personal space.

"For our cover story."

John's only response was another nod, but then his left arm wound itself around Sherlock's waist. "Good?"

"Yes," Sherlock managed, and began to steer them across the bar towards their suspect before John had a chance to wonder whether or not his rapid heartbeat had more to do with their proximity than the impending confrontation.

"It wouldn't be advisable to walk around on your own, anyway. With all these hungry vampires around," John whispered, his head lifting up to Sherlock's who bent down slightly to hear him better. "After all, you're my 'donor' and I don't share."

Sherlock didn't miss the undercurrent of the last word, hinting at protectiveness and possessiveness, and he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing up with John in such close proximity. He gulped imperceptively before he nodded and put on a demure expression.

"How shall we –" he started.

"Let me speak," John interrupted, his gait confident and his back ramrod straight.

They approached the table and the vampire lounging on a long crescent-shaped sofa with the pretty girl on his arm narrowed his eyes the closer they got. The corner was shrouded in shadows, only two tea lights on a small table illuminated the sitting area.

"Good evening," John greeted, meeting the slanted eyes of the man. "May we share the sofa with you?"

Sherlock tried his best to project an air of passivity while his mind catalogued all the minute details about the man in front of them. The vampire was neither young nor old, at an odd place in-between that prompted the kind of posturing that made him let the silence linger between them.

Ten full seconds passed before the vampire inclined his head. John moved swiftly, claiming the right side of the crescent-shaped sofa. Sherlock slid into place next to John as gracefully as he was capable of.

 

The next five minutes were spent with the most tedious kind of small talk – though to Sherlock, every kind of small talk amounted to torture – yet eventually, John slipped in a reference to MacCafferty. The girl next to the man, who had introduced himself as Everhart Lockley, kept stroking the back of her vampire's hand, giving no sign that she was paying attention.

Lockley, contrarily, visibly perked up. Subtlety was not his forte, Sherlock noted with a mental sigh.

"You know him well?" the vampire asked.

John, who was reclining comfortably on the sofa, gave Everhart a reassuring smile and nodded. "We met a couple years ago and did each other some favours in some… business," he said, his voice ending on a meaningful connotation.

Everhart raised a suspicious eyebrow but inclined his head for John to continue.

"I have another thing going and wanted to speak with him about it. He used to frequent some clubs in London but it's been a while and I was wondering if he still does. Have you seen him around lately?"

It was obvious that Everhart was sceptical about his story and reluctant to give John any information.

"Why aren't you contacting him via text message or calling him if you've been partners?" he asked, his eyes shifting to Sherlock in curiosity.

John gave a chuckle, pushing the fingers of his left hand into the curls at Sherlock's nape, indicating whom Sherlock belonged to. "Oh, he's got the habit of changing his numbers. He's a very private man."

Sherlock, who had got goosebumps from John's gentle touch, knew that this was a wild guess. Not even he could tell if it was really a habit of some vampires to do that. But John must have his reasons and although they weren't very close (that had been a long time ago) he trusted John.

"Quite common, isn't it? Even though no one's hunting us down now like in the olden days."

John snorted, the movements of his fingers never ceasing even as he levelled a smirk at Everhart. "I'm just glad I wasn't a woman back then – never aging, never getting sick… I heard a third of all witches executed in Europe were vampires."

Sherlock huddled closer into John's side at the thought of his childhood friend suffering the same fate while selfishly hoping John would continue. There was little way of knowing whether what John said was sincere or a mere half-truth tailored to win over their mark, and yet he liked to think this was John's way of telling him things neither of them had mentioned yet.

Everhart must have thought John to be a little younger than he actually was, for John's easy allusion to the Middle Ages left the man visibly impressed in its wake. "A dangerous time, I imagine."

"Oh, you have no idea," John sneered, infusing his tone with a hint of arrogance.

Everhart's human was watching him, Sherlock noted. Her eyes were slanted, broadcasting her mistrust loud and clear despite the electrifying touch of John's fingers against his bare skin. Feeling bold, Sherlock placed his hand on the vampire's side, just below the ribs, palm flattened to cover as much as he could. He might never get another chance again, so Sherlock mirrored the strokes he felt against his nape, drawing luxurious paths into John's skin through the almost too-thin layer of his clothing. He was so captivated by the sensation that he almost missed when Everhart spoke again.

"You won't find Sean here tonight."

"How come?" John wondered, shifting a bit to grant Sherlock better access to his person.

Sherlock hoped no one would see the minute tremble in his hand.

"He prefers some other place on Thurdays. He says the pull's better there," Everhart added with a leer even as he manoeuvred his 'donor' into his lap. He traced the line of her neck with a finger, whispering something into her ear that made her blush furiously. "But I know a contact who might be able to help you find him. She frequents the café _The Green Lady_ in Kensington, particularly on Fridays. Her red, wavy hair is impossible to miss."

John thanked him with a smile, before turning to Sherlock and meeting his gaze. Sherlock could see the mischief and triumph in his steel blue eyes after getting the information, trying to push down the twisting knot that was forming in the lower region of his stomach.

John turned back to Lockley, who was now sucking gently at the neck of the young girl, whom he had cradled close to his body, caressing her bare thigh beneath the short dress she was wearing. Sherlock literally felt John's abdominals contract under his fingers before John cleared his throat and averted his gaze.

"Well, thank you for your help. We… we will bid you goodbye now and… um, leave," John said, his voice faltering in embarrassment and discomfort.

Everhart's dark eyes fell on him and a low chuckle escaped the feeding vampire while he made a shooing motion with his hand. As if struck by lightening, John got up quickly, his fingers on Sherlock's neck slipping to his shoulder and pulling the man with him.

"Let's go then," he urged. "I'm hungry."

That earned him another chuckle and Sherlock had no chance except to follow, not that he would even consider leaving John alone right now. They escaped the club in record time, John's fingers a hard pressure on Sherlock's wrist as he was tugging him around a corner and into a dark alley, away from the crowds and prying eyes. The grip loosened as John slumped against the nearest wall, eyes closed.

This time it took the vampire longer to regain his composure, to stop his hands from trembling. Sherlock wished he could reach out and provide comfort, yet he feared the gesture would only make it worse.

Eventually, John straightened. "All right. Kensington, he said?"

Sherlock made sure his expression was free of judgement when he met John's eyes."Yes. _The Green Lady_."

"Call us a cab, then. They never bloody stop for me."

With a chuckle, Sherlock did just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading our story and leaving all those amazing comments. They are very much appreciated! :) Please note that the next chapter will take awhile to be updated. We're writing it now but real life has got very busy for us and sorting it has priority.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In chapter five, Sherlock and John reconciled again. As they were looking for Sean MacCafferty, they decided to go undercover in vampire clubs to find him. John was invited to Baker Street to see Sherlock’s flat and be dressed accordingly for their mission which brought tension high between both men, even more so when they went to the clubs as donor and vampire master. They met Everhart Lockley who gave them a tip to speak to a contact who often visited a café in Kensington.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re happy to present chapter 6. We know waiting time was long but we won't rush this story, just because real life interferes sometimes. Happy reading!

The cab took them back to Baker Street, neither of them speaking a word during the ride. John felt itchy. He wanted to get out of these clothes as quick as possible, preferably accompanied by a good shower. His body was prickling all over. Those four days in close proximity of Sherlock had strung his nerves a little too tight. He could keep it under control but he wondered for how long. All that smell of blood in the club had clawed at him to take what he considered his.

The car stopped and John blindly threw some cash at the driver before bounding out onto the street. Sherlock quickly followed after to catch up with the speed of the vampire.

“Would it be alright if I used your shower?” John asked Sherlock, watching the man getting his keys out of his trousers with somewhat shaky fingers.

John lifted an eyebrow at that, taking a closer look at Sherlock.

“You okay? That wasn’t quite a nice club. Not like the others.”

Sherlock shook his shoulders in nonchalance.

“I’m fine,” he said, opening the door and entering first.

John closed the door behind him and followed the detective up the steps.

“So, shower okay? Then I can go call a cab and go back to my flat.”

Of course, he could also shower at his place but it felt cold and dreary there. Sherlock, having reached the top step, snorted instead of answering John’s question.

“You call that flat,” he said dismissively. “It’s an ugly bedsit.”

“Well… it’s the _only_ place I got,” John replied, taking off his tight jacket and sitting down on the sofa. “After coming back from Afghanistan I was glad they didn’t put me in a cell for breaking the rules by joining the war.”

Sherlock, who had been facing the fireplace after entering the living room, turned around and looked him over. “Then it’s a good thing we already agreed you would move into the spare room here. You can start today, stay the night.”

John blinked in surprised. “Nice that I get a say in that, too.” He sighed. "It’s not so easy, Sherlock. I’m sure your brother or someone else at the government is keeping an eye on me. If I don’t return tonight, they’ll think I’ve run off. Besides… ” He paused, uncertain whether or not he wanted to divulge that particular information.

“Well?”

“I’m hungry, Christ,” John explained, maybe a tad more severe than he intended. With a huff he started to unlace his shoes. “At least there are bloodbags at my _ugly bedsit_.”

Sherlock pouted slightly and put his hands on his hips, something he had already done when he was a teenager. John stopped what he was doing to look in fond amusement at him. Sherlock’s pout lost some of its intensity under John’s gaze, yet it didn’t stop him from arguing.

“Then at least shower. I’ll give you some spare clothes, and you can let the morons from SIS know that you’re probably not going to be back tomorrow night. They’ll be pestering us about an update soon – two annoying birds, one stone.”

“A stone that doesn’t involve you talking to people, you mean?”

“Obvious, John. So you _are_ capable of keeping up.”

John laughed, truly amused and a tad pleased given the compliment, if he was honest with himself. It gave him a warm feeling in his rather cool body that Sherlock wanted him around, even if the man couldn’t really say it in words. Just the offer of a room that brought him closer to Sherlock made the day look brighter, tight-strung nerves be damned. He could take care of that later.

True to his word, Sherlock lent him some clothes, and coming from him they were already twice better in quality than anything John bought for himself. Their goodbye was slightly awkward, yet John hardly cared – he was too distracted by his hunger. Leaving Sherlock that morning had him feeling bereft despite the promise of food, though John had expected nothing less.

 

 

~*~

Just like Sherlock had predicted, Mycroft sought him out the following morning, his polite “A word, Doctor Watson?” by no means a request. John recounted what little progress they had made and the older Holmes pursed his lips in dismay but otherwise remained dispassionate.

“I shall expect better news upon your return tonight.”

“I won't return tonight.”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow.

“Your brother decided my accommodation is abysmal, so I’m to take his spare room at Baker Street.”

If Mycroft was surprised, he did not show it. He merely inclined his head with an air of exasperation born from a lifetime of dealing with Sherlock once he had set his stubborn mind to something.

“Fine. Then you shall deliver a report first thing Saturday, Doctor Watson.”

John accepted, and Mycroft went his merry way. He was amused that nothing seemed to have changed between the two brothers since he saw them twenty years ago.

 

 

~*~

The next day was a sunny morning, reflecting Sherlock’s excited mood of looking forward to John moving into his flat. He tried to calm himself down as he didn’t want to look like an overeager boy but it was futile and he was sure that John could easily pick up on his emotion with his heightened senses and everything.

John arrived at lunchtime with a small duffel bag and nothing else. Sherlock had always wondered where all the possessions had gone that John had owned many years ago in his house but he reckoned he had put them into storage. Eagerly he ran up the stairs to show John his new room which looked brighter and more inviting than his bedsit ever had.

“That’ll do, thanks,” John said with a smile that was probably the cause for the way Sherlock’s heart began thumping so hard, though he decided to blame the sprint down the stairs prompted by the honking cab waiting outside. Seeing as Everhart hadn’t given them a time, they decided it was best to get to the café in Kensington as early as possible.  
It was quite warm outside but John was wearing a jacket and a navy bucket hat that made him look rather funny, yet also ordinary and inconspicuous.

“What about all those folklore tales about vampires?” Sherlock asked, curious. “How much is true?”

John glanced at the cabbie, who had his glass partition closed, before looking at Sherlock.

“Depends on what you heard. I thought you had it all figured out by now. Clever boy that you are.”

Sherlock could feel the blush creeping up his neck and shrugged his shoulders to play it off. Compliments from John still had this unexpected effect on him.

“You don’t die in the sun, do you?” he asked.

“Only if you leave us days without shelter from it. It’s nearly like with humans if you put them into the desert without water. I survived Afghanistan, though. Bloody hot it was there, too,” John sighed, turning his gaze out of the window and Sherlock assumed he was thinking about his days in the army. “We have a special suncream that protects us and we also cover our skin when it’s as sunny as today,” he replied after a moment, meeting Sherlock’s eyes again.

“How about mirror reflection, stake to the heart, black clothes, the whole Dark Age and Gothic rubbish?” Sherlock listed in a disparaging voice.

John chuckled.

“That’s all total bollocks. We blend into society like a chameleon into nature. About the stake to the heart… maybe I’ll tell you more about it later.” His voice trailed off as he looked out of the window again.

The cab had come to a stop opposite a five-star hotel in a bustling shopping street south of Kensington Gardens. The café in question was huddled snugly between a fashion retailer and a restaurant and was so small that it was easily overlooked. They were early enough that there were still several vacant seats, and Sherlock quickly calculated the spot most suited to their needs.

“Why don’t you sit down? I’ll take care of the drinks,” he offered, pleased at the surprised smile he received in return. Sherlock used the time he waited at the counter for their order to be prepared by trying to calm his pulse. He failed, obviously.

 _This isn’t a date_ , he told himself, even as he exchanged some money for their drinks. The small touches and the way John had behaved at the club were still getting to Sherlock, filling his head with ideas he had no indication were based on John’s genuine interest. _It is just for the case_ , he reminded himself for what felt like the hundredth time.

Sherlock returned to the small table in a corner that provided them with an overview of the tiny establishment. John had taken the chair against the wall and, after setting down their steaming mugs, Sherlock pushed the second one closer. John blinked yet before Sherlock could explain he needed to see the remaining patrons as well, his expression cleared. He had obviously caught on.

“No other vampires,” John whispered. “No redheads, either.”

“You didn’t expect us to be this lucky, did you?” Sherlock wondered, arching an eyebrow.

“Of course not. So, seeing as we got the time…”

“Ah, yes – should I keep you away from pointy objects?” He held his breath, anticipation building up in his chest. This was the first time Sherlock ever had the chance to question an actual vampire. The fact that his ‘first’ was John was all the more fitting.

The man shook his head. “Not all. Only platinic ones.”

Sherlock now looked curious. “Platinic ones? Why those?” he asked, thinking of his lab equipment at home which was mostly made of the material.

“Don’t know,” John said, taking a slow sip from his hot chocolate. “It’s always been like that. Vampires have feared it for centuries. As far as I know, a human found out about it long, long ago when he had to defend his family from a vampire.”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock said, his verdigris eyes sparkling with keen interest. “What happens if you touch platinum?”

John cocked his head in slight confusion at Sherlock’s reply. “Oh, I can touch it, just not for long because it hurts. When it comes into contact with a vampire’s bloodstream by stabbing it into their body, it hurts like hell and it burns them from the inside like a never-ending fire, I was told.”

“Has anyone ever tried to kill you?” Sherlock asked now, his eyes boring into John’s.

“No, but I worry now that I told you all that,” John replied, leaning back in his chair as if to distance himself from Sherlock.

Suddenly Sherlock realised what he must look like, the way he was leaning across the small table as if he wanted to put John under a microscope and dissect him. He gave him a crooked smile.

“Not my intention, John. I wouldn’t want to kill you.”

There was a moment of silence as the vampire relaxed. “Ta,” he replied eventually and Sherlock felt his apprehension evaporate again.

“My turn,” John announced then with a smirk. At Sherlock’s arched eyebrow, he elaborated, “Only you quizzing me – seems a bit unfair, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock inclined his head, his heart rate increasing. What would the other man want to know? Not all of his past actions filled him with pride.

“How did you become a, what did you call it? Consulting detective?”

 _Tricky_. Sherlock took a deep breath, casting about for an adequate place to start. He wanted to make a good impression, but he didn’t want to lie either. Not to John.

“I attended Cambridge after sixth form –” John gave a low whistle, clearly impressed. Sherlock refused to blush. “Reading chemistry, officially, but mostly I visited whatever lectures struck my fancy.”

His companion chuckled at that, a fond look in his eyes. Well, now came the tricky part.

“After graduation,” Sherlock began, “my brother wanted me to work for him, though I had no interest in siding with the government in any capacity.” He had to supress a shudder. “I, well – you might say I drifted for a bit. During that time, I met a detective who was failing to solve the most obvious case, so I offered my assistance.”

“Let me guess; you were a right twit to him?”

“I was perfectly reasonable,” Sherlock sniffed. “It wasn’t my fault they were all incompetent idiots who failed to see what was right in front of them.”

“Yeah, of course, not,” John chuckled.

Sherlock gave him a half-smile and wondered if John still remembered when he was a teenager. His deduction skills hadn’t been as honed as they were now but they had always led to dissatisfaction and exclusion among his peers.

“And you’ve been a consulting detective ever since,” John concluded, taking another sip of his drink, “How are you getting on with that job? Still having problems with making friends?”

“That’s a rather diplomatic way of putting it,” Sherlock said, but he felt a tug at the corners of his lips. “But yes. Most people hate how obvious they are to me.”

John was smiling now, and it was doing strange things to Sherlock’s chest. The vampire leaned back then, a challenge in his eyes.

“Am I obvious, too?”

“Pardon?”

“To you.” John made a vague gesture. “Blimey, you can probably tell exactly how I slept.”

“Poorly,” Sherlock blurted. When all his companion did was nod encouragingly, he continued. “The reason is elusive, yet you did have trouble sleeping. Presumably because of the low-quality mattress in your bedsit. Another reason you rooming at Baker Street is the best course of action.”

John chuckled, apparently in assent. It was so unusual for anyone to react favourably to his deductions that Sherlock found it impossible to stop once he had begun. He retraced John’s movements prior to his arrival at the flat as best as he could, even determining which brand of conditioner John used, which elicited a shocked if not awed, “How the hell do you know that?!”

“I did a series of experiments on artificial scents in industrial soaps two years ago. It’s on my blog,” was the truthful explanation.

John produced his mobile phone after that, pushing it across the table towards Sherlock. “Go on.”

Riding the high that resulted from the awe in the other man’s expression, Sherlock’s mind accelerated and he only had to turn the device around in his hands once to explain about the addicted previous owner, John’s brother Harry, and the broken relationship that had led to John owning the phone in question.

The feeling the look of admiration on John’s handsome face caused was better than any line of cocaine Sherlock had ever consumed.

“ _That_... was amazing,” John said, giving voice to his admiration.

Sherlock gave him a small smile, remembering that as a teenager he had coaxed the same reaction from John whenever he had made a deduction. He still couldn’t stop being surprised about that. It had been far too long that someone voiced their appreciation about what he deduced.

“Really?” he asked, incredulous.

“Yes, of course it was,” John emphasised. “You were already astonishing when you were young but over the years you’ve become extraordinary at it. No doubt.”

Sherlock bit his lower lip to prevent his face from splitting into an enormous, proud grin.

“You can imagine that it hasn’t changed what other people’s reaction is.”

John chuckled. “Do they still say 'Go away'?”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, leaning back smugly in his chair and said: “Oh, it has evolved into 'Piss off! '”

John guffawed, quickly smothering the noise with his hands when the surrounding customers threw him a look.

“Was everything I said correct?” Sherlock asked curiously.

“You were wrong about my brother because Harry is short for Harriet,” John explained.

Now Sherlock looked genuinely surprised. “I have wondered about that because you never mentioned having siblings. You have a sister? A sister who is still alive? But that would make her –”

“Also a vampire, quite right,” John said, taking a deep breath. “Not sure if I should be happy about it. She had some problems with drinking and drugs. I left London to help her settle her life; I guess she couldn’t handle being undead. Luckily she met Clara and is now in good hands. They had been split up but reconciled a while ago.”

Folding his hands while thinking about his sister, John’s face had become thoughtful.

“So… that’s why you left.” Sherlock wanted to say “me” but he couldn’t.

“Yeah,” John replied, looking up and meeting Sherlock’s gaze. “Among other things. Sorry.”

The apology was sincere and Sherlock swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. He was about to ask about these _other things_ , but just as he made to speak he caught a glimpse of red hair out of the corner of his eyes.

Those interested in women might describe her as fit, Sherlock mused as he quickly catalogued everything about her. Her attire consisted entirely of branded products – her summer dress was Burberry, the heeled shoes on her delicate feet Manolo Blahnik, her large sunglasses Gucci. She wore it with that special air of arrogance of the newly rich. Everything about her sparkled and shined with one exception: her tote handbag. There were scratches in the expensive leather, barely visible but damning all the same.

“That her?” John asked. The vampire’s nostrils were flaring, probably attempting to catch her scent.

“Yes. She owes her wealth to MacCafferty but she’s currently not too happy with him and her situation in general,” he explained in a low voice to avoid being overheard by the woman. “It’s highly unlikely our mark is still in the city or else she would have been nicer to her bag.”

John’s eyebrows rose towards his hairline while the woman was ordering an Iced Caramel Latte like Sherlock had anticipated.

“You got all that from her – _Christ_ , of course you bloody did.” John laughed quietly and the sound warmed something in Sherlock’s chest.

The vampiress walked past them with an air of haughtiness, her nostrils flaring imperceptively when she came close to their table, before stalking off to take a seat in the opposite corner of the room. She dropped her bag casually on the floor after pulling out her phone and sat down to sip on her drink and swipe on her device.

John watched her for a moment, took another gulp from his cup and then looked poignantly at Sherlock.

“What’s your plan?” he whispered so quietly that Sherlock had to strain his ears. “I’d suggest I walk over to her first, chat with her for a moment and then you join us. All right? Don’t take it personally but I really don’t want you to scare her away with your charming attitude,” he said, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Sherlock’s lips twitched at that.

“I won’t scare her away, John. You underestimate me.”

“Am I really? If I didn’t know you so well, I might agree.”

“She’s an informant and I can be quite persuasive and _nice_ if it suits my needs.”

John’s eyebrows rose up to his hairline.

“Do you want to show off now? Show me how good you are at your detective job?”

John leaned slightly across the table, looking Sherlock directly in the eye. The younger man shivered imperceptively under his probing gaze and kept his face blank as he nodded. John took another moment to decide, but eventually he tilted his head in the direction of their mark.

Sherlock could not have held back his smile even if he wanted to.

He didn’t approach the woman right away, opting instead for a detour to pour some more milk into his cup. He saw the slender line of the woman’s shoulders tense as he walked towards her table, though she remained where she was.

Sherlock barely needed to will his pulse to quicken – the knowledge that John’s eyes were following his every move were enough to have his heart leap into his throat.

“Hello, madam,” Sherlock began, sliding into the free chair across the woman.

In a display of power that was as blatant as it was boring, she took three whole seconds before glancing up form the screen of her phone. Even then, she only arched an eyebrow at him.

She knew he was here with a vampire – it didn’t take Sherlock’s levels of perception to gather that. Likewise she had already guessed why Sherlock was currently faux-fidgeting under her stare. When he spoke, he made sure to add a quivering to his voice to go with his cover story of needing to contact a mutual acquaintance. It played into the woman’s need to establish her superiority and established John as a strong ‘master’ over his human companion.

Since John was able to hear every word he said and adapt accordingly, Sherlock was free to improvise.

“Why should I care?” the woman asked.

Sherlock licked his lips to underscore his nerviness. “My master’s business proposition would require the involvement of a seasoned distributor.”

The promise of money had the woman’s eyes glint with greed. Sherlock sighed mentally as she told him to fetch his master. When he did, the appreciation in John’s expression made it hard to breathe for a moment. John squared his shoulders and his soft features turned businesslike when he got up and approached the table, taking his chair over to where the vampiress was sitting.

“Quite surprising to see such an unasuming man like you with such a donor. He must be quite new, considering his manners and the lack of a mark on him,” the woman said boldly.

“I don’t think it is any of your business to judge me or him. After all, we are not judging you by the brand of your handbag or the origin of your clothes,” John replied, sitting down and gesturing Sherlock to do the same.

The woman looked from John to Sherlock, licked her lower lip contemplatively before putting her phone into her bag.

“What is it you have to propose?”

“Well, as this is business we are speaking here, let’s go by protocol and introduce names. I’m Jack Brown and you are?” John said, quickly coming up with an alias as it wouldn’t do well to give his real name.

“How would I even know it’s not fake and you are just trying to chat me up?” Apparently the vampiress had seen through his charade.

“You’re quite right but I’m not interested. I’m a business man, so I’m only interested in business. I wouldn’t know your real name either, so let’s not bother with that.” John gave her his most sincere smile that did funny things to Sherlock, so he hoped that the woman was persuaded in any way as well.

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Victoria. And that’s all you will get, _Jack_. I don’t have all day, so what is it?”

“We were informed you have been in close contact to Sean MacCafferty. He disappeared during an important deal with me and some colleagues and I are trying to find him. Can you tell us anything about him?”

“We were informed you have been in close contact to Sean MacCafferty. He disappeared during an important deal with me and some colleagues and I are trying to find him. Can you tell us anything about him?”

Sherlock wasn’t certain what to expect from the woman – whether she would manage to keep her face blank or give something away. Her reaction fell in the middle. The sly smile playing about the corner of her mouth was noticeable, as was the spark of recognition in her eyes.

“That does sound like him. Now, why would I provide the information you’re asking for, even if I had it?”

The undertone of ‘What is in it for me?’ was blatant. Next to Sherlock, John prolonged the moment, his eyes fixed on Victoria with a calculating look.

“So you know where Mr MacCafferty is hiding.” John didn’t phrase it as a question.

“I might.”

“You’re suggesting you’d only give up information for something in return then,” John concluded by the look she was giving him. “With what could I oblige you?”

Victoria feigned thinking about it but it was clear to John that she would suggest something daring. He had already guessed by the way she had eyed Sherlock during their conversation.

“Don’t get me wrong but he had sworn me to secrecy. He doesn’t want to be found. The situation has changed, though, and to be honest with you, I’d rather he is found and taken care of.”

“How come?” John asked, now just as curious as Sherlock as to what had caused this. Sherlock had theories, yet no definitive proof for any of them.

Victoria swirled a curl of her hair around her finger. “I’ll let you in on that if you grant me a wish,” she said with a sly smile. “I’d like to have a sip from your pet.”

John’s eyes narrowed abruptly at that. It was considered rude to tell a vampire that you wanted to drink from their life source. Only close friends shared their pets and only if the pet’s owner offered it. The fact that John couldn’t claim Sherlock as his own, because he lacked a mark, rid him off the entitlement of feeling angry about Victoria’s wish. So far, Sherlock wasn’t his pet… yet. He longed to ask Sherlock in the near future if he would like to become his life source but in reality he wanted something else. Something he wasn’t sure Sherlock would agree to.

He felt jealousy and possessiveness war within him. If he allowed Victoria to drink from Sherlock he would have to give up the craving to be the first to do that. Also, as they were only faking their whole relationship in regards of pet and master, he felt torn by taking the choice from Sherlock of deciding if he wanted to have Victoria drink from him.

He looked at Sherlock briefly, curbing his feelings; only the clenching of his fists underneath the tabletop gave away his distress.

“You know you’re being rude,” he said with barely restrained anger audible in his voice.

“I could just leave you with no information. After all, _you_ approached me,” she replied blasé. “You haven’t marked him yet, so he’s still free for the taking.”

“He is _not_ ,” John ground out now, leaning over the table with dilated pupils. “You are playing a dangerous game, Victoria.”

“Am I?” she challenged. “You’ve heard my demand, Jack. Let me have a sip, or you will have to keep looking for Sean. I doubt you’ll find him without me, but you’re welcome to try.”

John narrowed his eyes. It was hard to think over the mental image of that woman being the first to taste Sherlock, but he forced himself to hide his jealousy.

Just then, something touched his thigh. A hand – Sherlock’s hand, a reassuring weight. Looking to his human companion would be a blatant show of weakness, which Sherlock was certainly aware of. Maybe that was why he had chosen to reach out, John wondered. The grip was firm, a non-verbal “It’s okay”. John swallowed. It wasn’t okay, not for him, but Sherlock was right. They had a case and this was the only way to solve it.

John leaned back in his chair slowly. He despised the smirk that blossomed on Victoria’s face.

“Why don’t we relocate?” she suggested. “I don’t think the clientele here would like to watch.”

She led the way – her flat was close, and even John could tell it spoke of new wealth. Sherlock had given him the faintest nod while leaving the café, but still John’s mind was racing to find a different way to make Victoria divulge the information. Then it occurred to him.

He was the older vampire. He could play that to his advantage.

Sherlock gasped when John exploded into motion, his movements too quick for Victoria to deflect. Her back connected with the wall next to the living room door and she hissed, baring her sharp teeth. She couldn’t throw him off, however.

“Let’s clarify,” John began in his most commanding tone. “You get to drink, but you don’t get to bite. You stop when I tell you to, and then you will tell us where to find MacCafferty. Understood?”  
John could see her thoughts reflected in her features, but self-preservation eventually won out over defiance.

She bowed her head and tilted it slightly to the side, baring her throat in a show of submission. John released her and took a step back. Sherlock, who had taken off his coat and jacket, was rolling up the sleeve of his white shirt to reveal pale skin before holding out his left arm obligingly.

The urge to sink his teeth into the delicate wrist threatened to overpower John, blood and scent calling out to him unlike it ever had before. He could do it, too – Sherlock wouldn’t stop him, not during the case, and he also wouldn’t be able to throw John off when the vampire put him under his thrall.  
But Sherlock deserved better. John refused to let the first time he drank from the man be in the course of a case.

Holding Sherlock’s gaze, John reached into his pockets and retrieved a knife. Verdigris eyes widened when understanding dawned on the other man. John thought he saw relief there, that Sherlock’s shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, but he might have been imagining it.

He administered the cut just below the wrist with the precision of a doctor and Sherlock took it only with a slight wince. Victoria only approached when John inclined his head in permission and never broke additional skin with her teeth. She lifted Sherlock’s wrist to her eager red lips, sealed them carefully around the cut and started to suck.

With Victoria’s attention firmly elsewhere, John could turn his to Sherlock. The man’s eyes had gone wide, though in fascination rather than pain. He was probably cataloguing every sensation, storing away every gulp and greedy gasp. One day, John hoped to look back fondly on this memory, yet right now all he felt was jealousy.

“That’s enough,” John snapped after maybe three hundred millilitres had slipped past her tongue.

She froze, clearly toying with the thought to fight him, and once again John wondered if Sherlock’s blood truly tasted as marvellous as it smelled. Usually blood tasted the same to most vampires but there were exceptions – and Sherlock was exceptional in so many other regards.

In the end, however, Victoria withdrew, sealing the cut with her saliva. John placed a possessive hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, who quickly cleaned his skin with a tissue from his trouser pocket and rolled down his sleeve.

“Well?” he prompted. “Tell us about Sean.”

Victoria had her eyes closed for a moment, licking her lips reverently to catch every trace of Sherlock’s blood. Then she opened them again but her eyes, which had been nearly dark with just a thin stripe of colour around the iris, were now a noticeable dark green shade. John could positively feel Sherlock’s question, but the detective remained silent.

“Oh, Sean,” she sighed dramatically and went over to the white sofa in her living room where she sat down. “He’s a womaniser – a rich one at that. You probably know already if you are working with him. He likes to get his women presents and spoil them. It doesn’t matter if they’re humans or vampires. There’s even a rumour he tried to seduce a banshee but no one believed him.”

Sherlock rarely showed astonishment but he gave John a look of incredulity at the mention of the banshee. John just shrugged and approached one of the white armchairs opposite the sofa. He sat down and beckoned Sherlock over, patting his knee.

Sherlock obeyed with only a hint of hesitation. John only noticed it because he was waiting for it – the man’s body clamming up, only for a second, before crossing the space and lowering himself into John’s lap.

“Carry on,” he said to Victoria.

“To be blunt, we had an affair for quite awhile. I realise now that I was just one of many he courted. We had a lavish lifestyle and enjoyed many parties here,” she explained.

During her response, John slid a proprietary hand around Sherlock’s torso and nudged him. It was faint, but decisive. Sherlock leaned back until his shoulders touched John’s chest.

John looked down for a drawn-out moment once Victoria had finished. What she would read as an assertion of power served as reassurance for John that Sherlock was still fine with their… charade. But the man was draping himself rather handsomely over John, like the perfect pet.

John quelled another wave of desire, then met Victoria’s gaze straight on.

“I appreciate your bluntness. Allow me to return it,” John said. “There is a special substance circulating among our kind. Sean promised me access to it – and now he’s gone. What can you tell us about that?”

The vampiress crossed her legs and looked John square into the eyes as if she was challenging him.

“We agreed to speak about Sean and his whereabouts and not about drugs,” she said a little petulantly. “I might be able to have some information on that if you care to give me some more blood.”

John hissed and bared his teeth, his face darkening dangerously and his hand around Sherlock’s waist tightening. Sherlock tensed against his hand yet only for a moment. Then his body relaxed in the most delicious way.

“You’ve had enough blood already,” he growled.

“Fine,” Victoria said, raising her hands in reassurance. “How about some tea, then to help your… friend replenish?”

“Would you like tea, Sherlock?” John murmured to him. With the younger man resting against his chest, the angle was awkward but he managed to make out the small nod.

“Alright,” John told Victoria, who moved reluctantly to fetch the drink.

John didn’t dare whisper anything to Sherlock since Victoria’s heightened senses would allow her to eavesdrop. Instead, John let his thumb rub soothing circles into Sherlock’s skin through the layers of clothing. Once again Sherlock tensed, but relaxed into the touch a rapid heartbeat later.

Before John could get too lost in the sensation, Victoria returned and he had to loosen his possessive hand around Sherlock to let him drink his tea.

John fixed Victoria with an expectant stare. “Well?”

“I’ve heard of this rumour too and I guess that Sean has had the means to get his hands on it but I have never touched it,” she said. “I saw the news that people have died…”

John saw Sherlock’s hands twitch where they were holding the china. Yes, she was lying through her teeth. John didn’t need the country’s best detective to tell him that.

“Some, yes, but out of their own stupidity,” John said, slowly and deliberately. “You’re not stupid, are you? Then why don’t you answer me honestly?”

He had to give it to her – Victoria played the clueless bystander very well.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do, but that’s beside the point,” John continued. He was still calm, collected. He saw that his demeanour threw her a bit – she had expected violence, he assumed. “We don’t want to implicate you. We won’t even tell Sean that you were the one who told us where to find him. We just want to know his location.”

John held her gaze. The tension in the room grew, building up with every passing second. Briefly, John thought Victoria would panic and fight… yet in the end, self preservation won out.

 

 

~*~

“Are you alright? Sherlock?”

John made it ten steps out of Victoria’s building before using his vampire speed to rush both him and Sherlock into a narrow side street where he could be sure not to be overheard.

The detective was pale – paler than usual, his breathing erratic and his pulse spiking. John cupped Sherlock’s face with a hand, tilting it down to meet John’s eyes.

“Sherlock?”

With monumental effort, Sherlock took a deep breath. On the exhale, most of the tension left his body and a blush rose in his cheeks. That baffled John more than the location Victoria had provided.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock eventually said.

“Are you sure? Does your arm hurt? I didn’t want that to happen,” John said ruefully.

“I’m okay, John.”

John hadn’t removed his hand, but even without it he would have heard the stutter in Sherlock’s pulse that indicated the lie.

John smiled wryly at that. Sherlock heaved a sigh, muttered a “Bloody vampires,” but there was no heat in his voice. Then he straightened.

“I was momentarily overwhelmed. Nothing to worry about, John.”

“Overwhelmed? Why?”

“Why did her eyes change colour?” Sherlock asked. “And what, exactly, is a banshee?”

John blinked at the sudden non-sequitur. This had to be the most obvious change in topic he had ever witnessed, especially from Sherlock. If the man was indeed this ruffled, it was probably best to give him time and ask again later.

“Of course you noticed her eyes change,” John said with a sad smile, “Vampires can go without blood for about two weeks. Cherry, apple or beetroot juice which contain high amounts of iron and vitamin C can only tide us over a little, that’s why many of us get their hands on bloodbags or fresh blood. The longer we go without it, the darker our eyes become. So, going by the colour of our eyes you can also see how hungry and dangerous we are. Well, and a banshee is a spirit. They make a horrible screeching or keening sound to signal the death of a family member or loved one. But never mind that. Humans rarely see or hear them,” John continued. “That place she named. Sean’s location. Are you familiar with it?”

Sherlock swallowed. When he spoke, his voice was but a whisper. “Intimately.”

John tensed. “How so?”

Sherlock swallowed again, shifting his stance. The obvious discomfort in his expression gave John pause. He cursed himself – he couldn’t imagine how harrowing the experience must have been for the detective.

“It’s …” Sherlock wasn’t meeting John’s gaze. “It was a time in my life I’m not particularly proud of, John.”

Silence fell. John weighed his options but his senses told him that Sherlock needed rest. Regardless of how curious John was, any answers could wait.

“Shall we go back to Baker Street?” John asked.

“Yes, I think we got what we needed,” Sherlock replied, stepping out to the main street and up to the kerb.

He flagged down a cab and opened the door for John who only gave him a slightly worried look, glad they were out of Victoria’s flat.

“221B Baker Street,” Sherlock told the cabbie and off they were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and commenting. Please note that the next chapter will take awhile to be updated.


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